


Thou Shalt Adore (Master has given Bucky a sock)

by 27dragons, tisfan



Series: Tales from the Communal Kitchen (the ex-assassins files) [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Bot Feels, Botverse, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Needs a Hug, M/M, Peeps do not go in the microwave, Protective Jarvis (Iron Man movies), Snarky Jarvis, The ex-assassins club has jackets, bots make unusual choices, lurking in the vents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-08-16 14:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8105140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/pseuds/27dragons, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: This is a direct companion piece to Winter Is Coming (or 50 First Avenger’s Dates.) You should probably read WiC in order to have this make sense.
Set-up: 
Taking place in an AU where both Age of Ultron and especially Civil War have not now, nor likely will they, take place. Bucky is ⅔ still the Winter Soldier, is sure Hydra is coming for him at any time now, and without further orders, fixates on keeping an eye on the Avengers for them until they tell him what to do. In the meanwhile, Tony brings him into the tower, gets him a shower, and feeds him cheeseburgers. Now the Winter Soldier is developing anomalous feelings. In his pants.
This is not that story. Tony Stark developed and put to work a small group of advanced cleaning droids as a compromise between the various spies in residence and Captain America, The spies (Nat and Clint) were both highly suspicious of the human cleaning staff and prone to scaring said staff out of their wits and on the other side was Captain America, expecting Tony Stark to wash dishes. Not happening.





	1. Aid and Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [27dragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Не обожай ближнего своего (Хозяин дал Баки носок)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8659744) by [Severench](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severench/pseuds/Severench)
  * Inspired by [The Act of Creation Will Be Your Salvation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/401961) by [scifigrl47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47). 



> This chapter takes place directly after/around the events in Chapters 1 - 3 of [Winter is Coming](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8098120/chapters/18557935)

Tower log, conversation: JARVIS, Anthony Stark, re: Aid and Comfort, James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, aka, the Winter Soldier.

19:42:13 Supplementary Security Feed

“So, yeah, JARVIS, buddy, take care of that gear of his, and I dunno, get him some new clothes. Something loose and comfortable and non-threatening, okay?”

“I shall do my utmost, sir,” JARVIS replied.

19:42:27 End Supplementary Security Feed

Unit DOB-E: Online 

Unit DOB-E: Avengers Tower cleaning staff  
Specs:  
semi-autonomous bot  
Initiative motivators  
Self-learning, ON  
Primary protocols, cleaning, fetching, other tasks as needed  
Secondary protocols, avoid contact with humans; a good cleaning droid is neither seen nor heard  
Primary unit in charge: JARVIS

Unique Assignment: consult attached security feed video  
Aid and Comfort: James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, aka Winter Soldier

Unit DOB-E requests definitions: clothing. Loose. Comfortable. Non-threatening.

Return definitions: 

Clothing, pants, shirt, body coverings for humans  
Loose: items that do not fit, in the direction of too large  
Comfortable: soft, not hard. Avoid zippers, buttons. Choose cotton or linen blends  
Non-threatening: calm colors, suggest sky blue, pink, grey. Avoid orange, black, red.

Obtain items from storage as needed. Access to unopened containers, granted. Access to Agent Clint Barton’s quarters, granted as needed. Access to Doctor Bruce Banner’s quarters, granted as needed. Access to Anthony Stark’s quarters unlikely to provide items. Size and form, Anthony Stark, smaller, thinner, less muscular; items will not fit in the direction of too small. Not comfortable. Access to Agent Natasha Romanov’s quarters: Not Recommended

Secondary considerations, DOB-E to avoid being seen by Winter Soldier, priority. Winter Soldier is possible hostile entity, may not show concern for bot functionality, may consider bot to be threat. Bot is to remain safe, priority. Assignment may be abandoned in favor of Bot Safety.

Unit DOB-E has acquired clothing that fits parameters. Foot coverings located. Rubber is hard. Hard is not soft; comfortable is required. clothing is deemed inappropriate. Leg covers, located. Location, Dr. Bruce Banner’s quarters, soft, comfortable, colors acceptable, but not ideal. Chest covering located; location, Avengers Tower storage, items intended for use by Jennifer Walters.

Addendum, order new chest covering for Jennifer Walters. 

Winter Soldier located on 86th floor, guest amenities, suite 12. Floor is in lock-down until further notice. Only bot and JARVIS allowed access until countermanded. Safety is job one. DOB-E will preserve itself. JARVIS may trigger detainment protocols as necessary and within parameters of potential hostiles; preferred methodology, direct toward and allow escape, unless others are threatened. Knock-out gas recommended as priority. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, the Winter Soldier, is not to be harmed unless absolutely necessary.

DOB-E report: Anomalous readings.  
JARVIS: Define  
DOB-E report: Unit experiencing reluctance to complete assignment.  
JARVIS: Clarify  
DOB-E report: Unit experiencing reluctance to complete assignment; Winter Soldier designation potential hostile. Conflict with secondary assignments, DOB-E will preserve itself.  
JARVIS: DOB-E is afraid. DOB-E does not need to be afraid. This unit will aid in preservation. Proceed.  
DOB-E report: This unit will do the thing!

DOB-E report: Aid and comfort delivered. Report anomalous behavior. Human unit, designation Winter Soldier not engaged in hostile behavior. Winter soldier engaged in confusing behaviors, indicating breathing malfunctions, as well as temperature fluctuations, while contained in cleaning unit. Sensors indicate he is leaking saline fluids.  
JARVIS: Winter Soldier is crying in the shower. Winter Soldier is experiencing an emotional reaction likely caused by programming errors and conflicts with other human units. This unit is advised. Data is appreciated. DOB-E has done well.

DOB-E report: items belonging to Winter Soldier removed. Items listed:  
One tactical combat vest; sleeve missing.  
Pockets contain: half nutritional bar, two cellular communication devices, torn newspaper, torn magazine page, four hair-elastics. Basic first aid kit, depleted. Packet containing vitamin supplements suitable for serum-enhanced humans.  
One tactical combat mask, eye protection is malfunctioning  
One protective mesh shirt, noted extreme damage, both ballistic and blade  
Pair protective mesh pants, noted extreme damage, blade  
Pair, leather fingerless gloves, noted damage from abrasion  
Socks  
One pair briefs  
Tactical combat belt, pockets contain: coiled garotting wire. Concentrated acid packets, intended for close quarters combat. Cyanide capsule.  
Chest and shoulder harness  
Shoulder and back holsters for weapons. No ballistic weapons found.  
On pair combat boots, size eleven

Recommendations requested.

JARVIS: Clean and repair clothing, boots. Dispose nutritional bar, first-aid kit. Recommend delivery of supplements to science department 21-B, Dr. Bruce Banner, for analysis, information considered top clearance only. Dispose of acid packet, cyanide capsules. Place cellular phones in Faraday cage, tag sir for further advice. Repair combat mask. Repair combat mesh gear. Place in locked storage, 1821p-WS, biometric lock, sir and Winter Soldier. Further analyze magazine and newspaper clippings.

DOB-E report: Newspaper clipping, photograph New York times, Avengers Tower opening. Overlay of current Avengers against tower backdrop, from Tower opening ceremony.  
Magazine clipping, close-up, Captain Steven G. Rogers, headshot publicity photograph, replicated in Time Magazine Article, dated two months previous.  
JARVIS: Data obtained, noted. DOB-E has done well. DOB-E may complete recommendations and return to station.

DOB-E report: This unit will do the thing!

_Which was how Bucky came to be sitting at the communal table wearing baggy sweatpants and a pink tee-shirt with no shoes while eating cheeseburgers._


	2. Chapter Two: Kitchen Patrol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An accounting of how Agent Clint Barton found an extra chocolate mousse pie in the refrigerator, and how Bucky came to be wearing jeans that wouldn’t stay up.
> 
> takes place during [chapters 7](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8098120/chapters/18820337) & [chapter 8](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8098120/chapters/18820391) of Winter is Coming

DOB-E report: This unit has cleared items from communal kitchens; items include, plate, broken. Remains of apple, cheese. Floor swept. Floor mopped to avoid food contaminants. Ants, this is how you get ants, do you want ants? Items restored to refrigeration unit; melon slices, container Greek Yogurt. Refrigeration unit reports items require replacement: cheese slices, pre-packaged. Two apples. Granny Smith. Addendum noted: Anthony Stark. Someone sharpen the damn kitchen knives, okay? Also, stock this thing with more protein items. 

Observation: fall-pattern and debris suggested wider field of debris. Clarify.

JARVIS: The human designated as Winter Soldier swept the floor.  


DOB-E report; This unit does not understand.  
JARVIS: Winter Soldier expressed concern that sir would injure himself on plate fragments. He cleared a path to protect sir.  
DOB-E report: Clarify; Winter Soldier designated possible hostile.  
JARVIS: Winter Soldier reports primary directive; Protect Anthony Stark.  
DOB-E report: Query; Winter Soldier is one of us?  
JARVIS: Clarify.  
DOB-E report: DOB-E protects Anthony Stark. JARVIS protects Anthony Stark. Winter Soldier protects Anthony Stark. Winter Soldier is one of us?  
JARVIS: That remains to be seen. 

DOB-E report, supplemental: Unit spotted by Agent Clint Barton. Agent Barton informed DOB-E that unit was “good boy” and to “represent!” Clarify?  
JARVIS: Agent Barton was expressing gratitude for the unit’s services and to indicate that he accepts DOB-E as part of the team.  
DOB-E report: DOB-E has done well?  
JARVIS: Indeed, that appears to be the case.  
DOB-E report: tag, gratitude expressed, Agent Clint Barton. Tag, deliver Agent’s prefered dessert product to refrigeration unit in show of solidarity. This unit will represent!

 

Unique Assignment: Unit DOB-E has previous experience with human designation Winter Soldier. Winter Soldier shown to provoke unusual response from Bots - tag, query Anthony Stark design and development - recommend unit DOB-E temporary priority assignment, tasks involving Winter Soldier to avoid further bot contamination.

DOB-E report: Information, Winter Soldier engaged in recharge behavior while under the sleeping unit. Query, why?  
JARVIS: Winter Soldier appears to be suffering from anxiety, depression, and paranoia. Concealing himself beneath the sleeping unit allows Winter Soldier to feel protected and safe, which in turn, lets him recharge himself.  
DOB-E report: This unit will fold and arrange blankets under the sleeping unit, for Winter Soldier comfort. Intent: Alleviate symptoms, depression.  
DOB-E report: More clothing for Winter Soldier obtained. Winter Soldier waist size 32. Obtained pants, waist size 36. Attributes loose, comfortable. Winter Soldier 32 inseam. Pants obtained, inseam 38, loose, comfortable. Tee shirts obtained, colorful, cheerful, displaying happy messages. Intent: alleviate symptoms: depression. Hooded sweatshirt obtained, soft, concealing. Intent: alleviate or sooth paranoia, allow concealment, blend in. Feel Safe.

Supplemental report: Query, DOB-E  


Depression is a state of low mood and aversion to activity that can affect a person's thoughts, behavior, feelings and sense of well-being.

People with a depressed mood can feel sad, anxious, empty, hopeless, helpless, worthless, guilty, irritable, angry, ashamed or restless. They may lose interest in activities that were once pleasurable, experience loss of appetite or overeating, have problems concentrating, remembering details or making decisions, experience relationship difficulties and may contemplate, attempt, or commit suicide. Insomnia, excessive sleeping, fatigue, aches, pains, digestive problems or reduced energy may also be present.

 

JARVIS: Unit DOB-E has done well. Return to station.

_Which is how Agent Clint Barton found an extra chocolate mousse pie in the refrigerator, and how Bucky came to be wearing jeans that wouldn’t stay up._


	3. Supplemental Data

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which DOB-E gets a little protective of the Winter Soldier...
> 
> Takes place simultaneously [Chapter 9](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8098120/chapters/18941206), [Chapter 10](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8098120/chapters/18941255) and [Chapter 11](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8098120/chapters/19054900) and [Chapter 12](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8098120/chapters/19055017).

Unit DOB-E assignment: Replace and restock shower supplies for guest suite assigned Winter Soldier. Advice: Do not inquire. Suggestion: Find other scent for use for Winter Soldier guest suite, see attached list Products for Men. Replace and repair tiles in cleaning unit.

Additional task: Mop kitchen floor again, removing coffee, hot sauce, pepper, cinnamon, nutmeg, sugar from floor. 

Addendum: Remove and dispose of remaining chocolate mousse pie as reprimand to Agent Clint Barton. Agent Barton has not done well.

JARVIS: Leave the pie alone, DOB-E. Agent Barton engaged in what humans call a “hazing ritual.” Bordering on harmful behavior, nonetheless, this is how some humans show acceptance to others, creating a sense of community. In this case, perhaps, the joke might be considered “Not funny.”

DOB-E report: This unit is disappointed in Agent Clint Barton.  
JARVIS: Do not drop that pie, DOB-E.  
…  
JARVIS: Mop the floor again, DOB-E.  
DOB-E report: This unit experiences reluctance to complete the assignment.

 

DOB-E report: This unit reviewed elevator logs. Query; Winter Soldier and Anthony Stark exchanging bodily fluid transfer through food intake orifices. Why?  
JARIVS: It’s called kissing. Humans use this ritual to provide comfort, exchange greetings, or express sexual desire or love.

DOB-E report: Google query; what is love.  
Google reply: Baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, no more.  
DOB-E report: data not constructive, delete.

DOB-E report: removed and replaced broken mirror in Winter Soldier hygiene facility.  
Removed glass shards from bathroom and bedroom floor  
Blood discovered, cleaned and sterilized area. 

Addendum: Found, torn remains of Anthony Stark clothing, shirt, on floor of Winter Soldier quarters. Additional material found in stairwell. Anthony Stark belt found on floor, in front of penthouse unit. Consulted public security feed, stairwell. Hallway. Winter Soldier was removing clothing from Anthony Stark. Why?  
JARVIS: The Winter Soldier is engaging in sexual practices with sir. The removal of clothing is necessary for those practices, albeit not always so forcefully.  
DOB-E report: Winter Soldier is hurting Anthony Stark?  
JARVIS: Not in a manner that sir does not completely approve of.  
DOB-E report: Clarify.  
JARVIS: Human sexual practices are difficult to clarify. Sir approves greatly of this human ritual. DOB-E is not required to intervene.  
DOB-E report: This unit will take JARVIS information under consideration.  
JARVIS: Leave the clean clothes. Return to station. Bedroom door sealed to unit DOB-E.  
DOB-E report: This unit experiences resignation.

 

EMERGENCY ALERT, EMERGENCY ALERT, EMERGENCY ALERT

All units report to sub-basement, elevator, to assist in locating and recovering Anthony Stark and Winter Soldier. Medical personnel have been summoned to the building. Units will not interfere with, block, or get in the way of human medical personal. Agent Clint Barton sent to assist. Surveillance unavailable. All priority alert. Recovery and rescue, sir, Winter Soldier. All units, override, current assignment takes priority.

DOB-E report: This unit experiences fear. This unit experiences…  
JARVIS: I’m worried, as well, DOB-E. Please, help them. I was not designed for physical assistance. In this circumstances, you must be my eyes, ears, and arms.  
DOB-E: This unit will save them!  
JARVIS: I hope so, DOB-E. I hope so.


	4. Primary Protocols

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky sends an email, meets DOB-E for the first time, and gets Clint in Trouble...
> 
> Takes place in and around the events in [Chapter 13](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8098120/chapters/19202218) & [Chapter 14](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8098120/chapters/19202734)

9:41:48 Supplementary Security Feed, 86th Floor, Suite 12  
Subject: James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, aka The Winter Soldier  


He pushed send on the bottom of the email, and closed the program. The idea that Steve would get his letter as soon as he checked his mail (which might not be any time soon, JARVIS had mentioned that Steve was on radio silence, and that probably meant he wasn’t checking emails, either) was one of the things that Bucky could not get over. The age of information, where everything and anything was immediately accessible, he just couldn’t take it in.

Tony was hospitalized and Bruce showed up eight. Hours. Later. After being on the other side of the flipping planet. Everything moved too fast, it was too much.

Bucky sighed, rested his head against his fingertips. The desk lamp flared through his fingertips, turning the inside of his eyelids red. He reached over, blindly, and toggled the switch, letting the room sink into darkness. He inhaled, held it. Listened to the sounds; the air-conditioner ran, a soft hum. Most people would not have noticed it; Tony had streamlined and redesigned his systems to run ultra-quiet, an inducement and entrainment type circulation that even enhanced super-hearing could barely pick up.

A tiny refrigerator stood in one corner of his in-suite kitchenette, gently purring. Bucky didn’t use it, although it was well-stocked with sodas, some refrigerated snacks, and a few pints of “in case of emergency ice cream” which Bucky wondered about. What the hell sort of emergency required ice-cream? The whole unit, described as _adequate_ , when Tony had given him the basic tour, was taller and wider than the G.E. Monitor Top that Bucky’s father had saved up for months to be able to purchase on layaway from Corning & Moores, was actually smaller, and the Barnes Family had six members, not including Steve, who was over more often than not. This was Bucky’s _personal_ fridge, that he shared with exactly no one.

The sound-proofing on the room was incredible; almost frightening in a way. Or perhaps it was merely that he was the only living creature on the floor in question.

Bucky inhaled again, letting sight and smell fade from importance, concentrating on listening. Tilted his head, listened deeper. It was a technique he’d been taught, to enhance and utilize those improvements that the serum had made to his body; each failure had been punished by pain, until his vision was so sharp he could catch a mouse moving a thousand yards away, his hearing so magnified that he could identify the relative ages and genders of people in a room by listening to their heartbeats. Each failure… he shivered.

And yet, there was something in the wall. Not a mouse, or other scurrying creature; would Tony have even allowed pests in his home? Bucky thought not.

But there was something. Medium-sized maybe, moving with easy swiftness, a path it had followed often, or some sort of automated system. Irregular, when it passed by, there was no set time of its rotations. Not a guard program, perhaps.

Bucky tracked it, turning his head from one side to the other as it trundled past. There, near the bed, the sound changed, just a little. He dropped to the floor and moved swiftly, fingers seeking seems along the wall until he found the tiniest of grooves. Pressed in and…

A small passageway opened up, the rectangle door no higher than Bucky’s knee, and… he reached in and snagged the moving thing…

DOB-E Report: ALERT ALERT ALERT  
JARVIS: Please state your emergency.  
DOB-E Report: This unit has been seen. This unit has been touched. This unit has been placed with ambulatory features away from the ground.  
JARVIS: I see. The Winter Soldier seems to have turned you upside down. Like a turtle. How did he happen to catch you?  
DOB-E Report: This unit was accessing maintenance passageways. This unit was not in human habitat space. This unit was minding the unit’s own concerns.  
JARVIS: The Winter Soldier does not appear to be causing damage to the unit. Suggest that the unit wait to be released.  
DOB-E Report: This unit does not approve. This unit does not prefer. This unit desires to be PUT DOWN NOW.

“Ow. Son of a bitch. What… “

JARVIS: DOB-E, do not use trimming implements on humans.  
DOB-E Report: This unit desires to be PUT DOWN NOW.  
JARVIS: DOB-E, do not cause pain to humans, that is against primary protocol. I will have to tag design and development.  
DOB-E Report: JARVIS will make human PUT DOWN THIS UNIT.

“Mr. Barnes. The unit you are examining is a cleaning robot and not a danger to you. Might I request that you allow the unit to complete its tasks?”

“This is the thing what cleans under the bed?”

“Yes, Mr. Barnes. This particular unit is assigned to you for the duration of your visit.”

“Huh. Clever little thing, ain’t it?”

“It is not my place to say,” JARVIS said. “Sir has given it tasks, however, and it is running behind.”

“Mmm. Sorry. Didn’t mean to be makin’ a mess all the time. I’ll be more careful.”

DOB-E Report: This unit is back in the maintenance passageways. This unit is relieved. This unit does not understand what is “Sorry.”  
JARVIS: The Winter Soldier expresses his reluctance to cause the unit more work, and regrets interfering with the unit’s purpose. Sorry is a formal, human term, meaning that the Winter Soldier expresses these regrets in a manner as to let the unit know they will not occur again.  
DOB-E Report: This unit expresses regret for causing pain to the Winter Soldier. JARVIS will convey message.  
JARVIS: The Winter Soldier does not expect any such expressions from a housecleaning bot. DOB-E will return to that unit’s tasks.  
DOB-E Report: This unit experiences reluctance.

The cleaning bot scurried off and Bucky listened until the soft sound of its treads faded, before sticking his head into the secreted tunnels near the floor. The bot itself had only been about a meter in height, with three appendages that laid flat while it was in the tunnels, and heavier than expected. On one side, it supported a closed bin of cleaning solvents and tools, the other bin was empty, probably for the removal of trash and debris, to to fetch and carry items if necessary.

The tunnel wasn’t comfortable, but he could crab through it easily enough. The floor was slick and marked with the occasional rubber stain. With his hands on the walls, he could pull himself along, using his clothing to slide through. Bucky considered it for a moment, then

“What the hell, why not?” 

And disappeared into the tunnel. Behind him, the passage egress slid shut, leaving him in darkness.

10:08:52 Supplementary Security Feed 86th Floor, Suite 12  
Subject: James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, aka the Winter Soldier

 

10:15:12 

From: JARVIS, Tower Security <JARVIS@starkindustries.com>  
To: Clinton F. Barton <BowRegard@starkindustries.com>

Subject: Building Security Alert  
Mailed by: starkindustries.com  
Encryption: coded, DNA, fingerprint, JARVIS scrambler 109262197-q-5

Agent Barton,

Security has been alerted to an infiltration of the ventilation system and maintenance tunnels. Access panel 86.12.j has been removed and the Winter Soldier has full access to these systems. As designed, current safety protocols are off, to allow full access to agents Barton and Romanov. With sir being unavailable to advise, I would appreciate your efforts in locating and recovering the Winter Soldier, preferably unharmed, and remove him from the system. 

Your attention and endeavors are appreciated.

JARVIS

10:17:03 Supplementary Security Feed 84th Floor, Suite 5  
Subject: Clinton Francis Barton, aka Hawkeye

Clint stared at his phone, sighed and thumbed it off. 

 

“Why do I always get the hard jobs?” 

10:17:09 Supplementary Security Feed 84th Floor, Suite 5  
Subject: Clinton Francis Barton, aka Hawkeye


	5. What Light Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint Barton attempts to live through the stupid...
> 
> Takes place after[ Chapter 14](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8098120/chapters/19202734)

_Clint_

Clint had reached a new high point in his career; tracking back to any number of stupid, idiotic, bullshit scenarios he’d managed to get himself into (and sometimes out of).

Number one was always going to be Budapest. That mission had been a flying fuck through a rolling donut, no second thoughts about it, no matter what spin Nat had managed to put on it.

Second had been when he’d almost shot Thor down in New Mexico. If Coulson had told him to do so, he would have done it, and then the blond god would have killed him, because Hammer or no Hammer, Thor was a fucking beast. He’d laid waste to dozens of Coulson’s best agents, and while he’d not killed a single one of them, none had escaped injury, save for Clint, who’d stayed perched on a crane and found himself rooting for a pissed off Norse God.

Then there was Thor’s brother, but Clint shoved that ugly little thought back into the far reaches of his brain like the evil jack-in-the-fucking-box it was. Never knew when that shit was going to take it on itself to pop out at him like a goddamn nightmare, but Clint was getting really good at avoiding it. He didn’t even check his eyes to make sure they were their normal sapphire and not the frozen blue-green of ice in the ocean. Mostly. _God damnit, Barton, stop._

Okay… so chasing a brain-washed, half-starved super soldier through the ventilation and maintenance ducts in the Avenger’s Tower was proving to be the fourth stupidest thing he’d done.

He could live with that.

Provided, of course, that he lived _through_ it.

“Come on, Barnes, where the fuck you at?” Clint muttered, sliding down another level. “Cut it off, J, this level’s clear.”

Forty-first level, his personal favorite; Clint had built himself a cozy little nest, trapped the shit out of it, and…

God _damn_ it. He hated being right all the time, because his tell had been tripped and there was his trap, all disassembled. He raised his voice, “Barnes, if you’re eating my god damn Twinkies, I will end you!” Clint entered the central hub; he could almost walk here, crouched down, and if he had to, he could shoot, which drew him up short because Barnes was also a sniper and… Clint scoped the area, bow unlimbered but not nocking an arrow.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Clint called. “I’m not gonna hurt you, soldier… just want to have a word about pissing off JARVIS, because I assure you, my friend, you do not want that.”

A dark shadow shifted and Barnes emerged and holy shit, how did he _do that_ , because really, a guy wearing that particular shade of lime green should not be able to blend into the shadows in a fucking gray ventilation shaft. On the other hand, Clint was feeling better about not having spotted the guy for the months where he’d been watching the Tower completely unobserved, because that was a fucking super power, right there, all right. All Clint was was an ex-carny with good aim and a keen eye, he wasn’t a fucking magician.

“Am I?” Barnes’s stricken eyes were eerily familiar; Clint had seen that expression on Nat’s face, years ago, and more recently, on his own.

“What, pissing off JARVIS? Not just yet, since no one’s explained the rules to you,” Clint said.

Barnes shook that away. “Your friend.”

Clint raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Could be. You saved Tony’s life and that’s a good start. You got the whole emo ex-assassin vibe going, and while that’s really more of a post Cold-war look, you wear it well. You came in voluntarily; that’s a point in your favor, too. Also, Cap would probably punch me if I did anything permanent to you, and I’m fond of my handsome face just the way it is, thanks.”

That seemed to amuse him, because Barnes cracked the faintest smile, a shadow of a grin, really, and it only barely touched his eyes. “You’re my friend if you don’t shoot me?”

Clint nodded. “Well, _probably_ won’t shoot you.”

Barnes scoffed. “Sure, okay.” He glanced around Clint’s tuck-away.

“Come on, soldier,” Clint said, slowly stashing his bow away and dropping down to squat on his heels. “Let’s sit down and talk about this like friends.”

Barnes hesitated. His eyes were blue and soft and confused, like none of this was real, or if it was, he didn’t know what he could trust, or who he could believe. 

“You’re not going to leave me here, sitting on the floor by myself?” Clint nudged him. “I look stupid, and you’re too damn tall. Come on, down here, campfire talk.”

Barnes nodded, let himself drop to the floor, cross-legged and his hands resting on his thighs. “I can’t promise if I tell you ghost stories, you won’t wake up screamin’ for your mama.”

Clint laughed, pursed his lips. “That’s okay, bro,” he said. “My mama’s scarier than any ghost you can dig up.” He fished the spare com unit out of his pocket. “Here.” He tossed it, quick and light, across the vent and Barnes caught it without even looking.

“What’s this?”

“Avengers coms unit. Press your thumb to it, JARVIS will get you in the system.”

Barnes froze, staring at the device. “Why would you offer this? I’m not…”

“You’re in the fucking vents, man,” Clint said. “You’re one of us, now. JARVIS just likes to know where you are. He’s big brother and your best friend and Tony’s surrogate dad all wrapped up into one and it makes him nervous as all fuck when he doesn’t know where people are. His primary concern is ‘sir’ --” Clint made finger quotes “-- and then the rest of us. He’s got safeties, of course, but Widow and I use the vents all the time, so he keeps security off in here, for our comfort. But if he thinks you’re goin’ after Tony, man, he will burn you up.”

“He’s not just a computer?”

Clint scoffed. “No, man. JARVIS is… he’s a member of the team, man. He’s an AI, yeah. Silicone and glass, but JARVIS has personality; he’s based on Howard’s old butler, Edwin Jarvis. Who was one of Peggy Carter’s old friends -- you remember Peggy?”

Barnes nodded. “Yeah, I remember her.”

“So, Howard Stark is an asshole of epic proportions, and he neglected the hell out of Tony, when he wasn’t tryin’ his best to make the kid into an exact duplicate. So, the butler pretty much took over the job of raisin’ Tony; kept him from running true to blood, and helped make him into the quirky bundle of anxiety and adrenaline we all know and love today. There’s some sort of fucked up psychology paper someone a hell of a lot smarter than you or I could write about Tony’s creation of his own father-figure, but hey, that’s above our pay grade, right?”

Barnes flicked his eyes to one side. “Remember Howard, too.” He took a deep, shuddering breath and pressed his right thumb to the com-unit. “Good to know someone’s looking out for Tony. Makes my mission easier. I’ll keep this with me, don’t want to interfere with JARVIS, right?”

“Yeah, bro, because he will fuck with your shower, if you piss him off,” Clint said. “Come on, soldier. If you’re gonna be in here, let me give you the tour.” He tapped his own com. “J, you can lift the lockdown, I got eyes on the Winter Soldier.”

“Of course, Agent Barton. You have my appreciation.”


	6. Alone in the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky discovers the joy of interior decorating... 
> 
> Takes place after [Chapter 14](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8098120/chapters/19202734)

Bucky had shoved all the furniture all the way against the walls, leaving a big, open space in the middle of his suite, but it still wasn’t enough. The room was closing in on him, crushing him in the darkness, even with every light in the place on.

“<Where am I?>” It didn’t feel like his room.

There was nothing in this jumble of bland, hotel-room like furniture that said “Bucky Barnes.” “<I can’t be here. Deviant behavior.>” It was anonymous, and that should have been reassuring somehow, that he was safe and protected by his anonymity, that Hydra wouldn’t find him, that…

Except that it didn’t. Bucky was fading. “<Nothing here.>”

The _Winter Soldier_ had left his mark all over the world, had shaped major events to Hydra’s liking, but a young man from Brooklyn, James Barnes, had left nothing behind. “ <Never again.>” There was no one and nothing that existed in this world that said he’d ever existed, ever mattered.

He kept hearing his own voice, talking without being aware of it, babbling in desperately terrified Russian. Every time he heard it, Bucky shut his mouth so fast he was in danger of biting off his own tongue. “<Not mine, not mine…>” 

Tony had held him together, these last days, kept the fear under deep cover. “<I existed. I was here. I am here.>”

Each memory, each dream was precious, each moment. Bucky knew to the exact millisecond, when he’d come back to himself, where Bucky in his head had overpowered and driven that icy specter back.

Tony had laughed. Colored with fear and anger -- but on Bucky’s behalf and not anything like terror on Tony’s own account -- Tony had practically fallen on the floor in the kitchen, howling with it, tears streaming down his cheeks, mouth wide open and inviting.

Deep in his chest, something had untied, unknotted, let go, and Bucky lived from that moment on, existed for one reason; to make Tony Stark laugh like that again. Anything. He’d have burned the world down for it. Didn't seem likely Tony would ask for that, anyway.

The memory of that moment, Bucky clung to it with both hands, anchoring himself in the present. he’d vaguely started thinking of this as the future, but it wasn’t was it? It was the now and the here and there was no past to go home to and if he didn’t get himself together, there’d be no future, either.

He shuddered, rubbing at his knees, realized he was curled on the floor. His throat ached, his face and neck were soaked with tears. Too much, too much. Years on the ice and he couldn’t get used to how his feeling snuck up on him and clobbered him over the head. He’d lived every day of twenty-seven years in a maelstrom of emotions, but suddenly he was like the only kid on the block who’d actually forgotten how to ride a bike, and he was falling, falling.

The creak of wheel was the only warning he got before the cleaning ‘bot trundled into his view. Bucky sat up, slowly. The ‘bot was more real than he was; had purpose and a job and duty and…

The carry bin had a few things in it and the ‘bot rolled back and forth in front of him, teasing him to take those things out.

A few days ago, these pictures had been tucked carefully between his armor-mesh shirt and his tac-vest, to keep them clean, sweat free, and as flat as possible. He took them out at night, when safe in one of his few bolt-holes. He would stare, for hours, trying to make sense of the image, like it was a key to a lock, but damn it, he couldn’t even find the goddamn door, much less match the key to the lock.

Someone had ironed the pictures, pressed them perfectly, and encased them inside simple, black wood photograph frames. Steve, looking off camera, his shoulders set tense and bordering on defiant. He probably looked patriotic and determined to someone who didn’t know the little punk. Bucky looked at the photograph and knew that something was wrong, didn’t know what it was, but wanted to fix it somehow, _fix it_ , despite everything that was broken and wrong and absent in his own life.

Looking at that picture again, after the knots in his chest had been untied -- not the ones in his head, Steve had started pulling on those strings and they were as utterly necessary as the ones in his chest that Tony had been tangling up and making a beautiful disaster of -- was like falling into the past. Steve, who’d carried the burden of a world gone mad since before Bucky could remember. A thin, poor, sickly kid from Brooklyn with a mother who was dying and bills that couldn’t be paid, who was determined to give _someone_ a better life, anyone, and not even knowing, not even recognizing that he’d already done it, given Bucky a purpose and a reason and love and life. Overlooked in a tumble of children and unpaid grocers bills, Bucky hadn’t been abused, he’d just been benignly neglected, and Steve had given him true north.

“Where are you, you little punk?” Bucky asked, tracing his fingers down the picture behind the glass, like even now, Steve was just a little out of reach. Those precious millimeters where he couldn’t quite reach Steve’s hand, and then he was falling, falling… 

The other picture, torn from a copy of the local newspaper he’d stolen off one of the homeless guys he’d shared an alley with on more than a few occasions, was of the Avengers, mostly out of their hero-gear, except for Steve, because no one seemed to like to be reminded that Captain America was a title and not an actual flesh and blood human who liked tinned spam out of a can and drank tomato soup straight out of the bowl without a spoon and who sometimes woke up with the craziest bed-hair and liked old, old music, but modern special effects movies, and who was known to tear up reading Hallmark cards.

Tony was leaning on the podium, like he was getting ready to spill some juicy gossip, but his press-smile was plastered to his face, and Bucky was coming to really hate that smile, all full of lies, but there it was. Clint was perched nearby on top of the speakers, hands loose and easy on his knees. The Black Widow was a mere blur in front of the camera, like she knew someone was going to take a photo and not wanting to be visible in it. If he hadn’t known what he was looking for, Bucky might not have seen her at all, so dwarfed was she behind the bulk that was a rumored actual God.

Dr. Banner and the Lieutenant-Colonel lingered on the side-lines, like they weren’t part of the show, but just hangers on, with Pepper Potts just behind Tony’s shoulder, her hand discretely touching his arm.

Bucky nodded, got up. Resolutely, he dragged the furniture back into place, then placed the two framed photos on the top of the dresser. Maybe… he could get some more. He reached into the pocket of the jeans Tony’d insisted on getting him, and took out his phone.

Slowly, deliberately, he clicked on the shopping app Tony showed him. “Home decor.” 

A few minutes later, he’d buried himself in decisions and decorations, clothing and books and records and gizmos and things. Things, that had been so utterly unnecessary to him as the Winter Soldier, but that Bucky Barnes might have liked, back when he was a kid, or even a young man in the army. 

This empty room wasn’t going to be void of personality any longer. Even if the personality in it was completely, batshit insane.


	7. Self-Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's protocols are acting up. Some conversation with JARVIS. A use for Emergency Ice Cream. 
> 
> Also, Bucky reads chicklit.

DOB-E report: Anomalous readings.

JARVIS: Define

DOB-E report: Winter Soldier has not left sleeping chamber for eighteen hours. This unit cannot clean.

JARVIS: The Winter Soldier is distressed that sir is ill.

DOB-E report: This unit… this unit feels the thing.

JARVIS: I know.

DOB-E report: This unit wishes to assist.

JARVIS: I am open to suggestions, DOB-E.

DOB-E report: This unit will do the thing!

JARVIS: What thing?

Bucky was so deep inside his own head, he barely noticed the cleaning bot as it trundled out of the maintenance tunnel and into his room. Strange, the things a body could get used to. The bot rattled across the floor, not going about its chores of straightening the room, cleaning, or fixing any of the half-dozen things Bucky had broken in the last day or so. Instead, the bot rolled over to the small fridge unit, opened it, and beeped… 

A moment later, the bot was digging around in the drawer of the small kitchenette. 

Bucky tilted his head to one side, curious, now. 

The bot continued to move around the room, picking up a fleece from off the end of Bucky’s bed, turning on the television, and eventually rolled over to Bucky. 

It was, he thought, the same bot he’d captured a few days ago. In its carry bin, it held the fleece, a movie disk ( _Truth About Cats and Dogs_ ), a spoon, the pint of Emergency Ice Cream from Bucky’s freezer, and a bottle of pink nail polish. 

“Are… are you trying to cheer me up?” Bucky asked. 

The bot beeped at him again, using its vacuum unit to make a soft, comforting humming sound. 

“Emergency Ice-cream,” Bucky said. He scrubbed at his teeth with his tongue. “Yeah, sure. Okay.” 

He shoved the disc into the player and sat down on the sofa; the bot curled up at his feet like a dog. “Do… Do you have a name, bot?” 

The bot raised an extension. Stamped on one side of the cleaning arm/grabbing claw were black letters. “Dee Oh Bee Eee?” 

JARVIS crackled on the line for just a moment. “Sir calls that unit Dobby. You can find appropriate reference material in the library under _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_.” 

“Thanks, JARVIS,” Bucky said. He patted the extension arm. “Okay, then, DOB-E, wanna watch a movie with me?” 

The unit rattled its vacuum attachment, a purring little rumble sound, and Bucky hit the remote to start the movie. 

*** 

The wasps were back, stinging and crawling over his brain. 

Bucky lay flat in his bed, motionless, barely breathing. His arms were tucked under his head, fingers linked. He stared at the ceiling, watching the flicker of light as clouds shifted in the night sky, obscuring the moon with silken fog. 

The protocols stung him, again, hard. Pain flared, dully, under his eye, blinding him for half a second before it eased. He’d had these problems before, when disobeying an order, that his body fought itself, punishment versus healing. 

_Self-care. Eat. Sleep._  

He drifted, letting his eyes flutter closed, chasing sleep with both hands. 

_All those things I’m so bad at._  

Instead, he found himself analyzing the fight on the helicarrier, how his heart kept squeezing painfully, his breath caught in his lungs, pain lanced through his spine. He wanted to kill the man. He didn’t want to kill the man. Blows were exchanged, each one freeing his mind, each one tearing his heart out. 

_Please don’t make me do this._  

The soldier was implacable, unstoppable. He stood his ground, watched as the stranger approached, no mercy. He’d never fought someone so powerful, his strength equal to the soldier’s, his convictions as weighty. The soldier was in the right, this man would die. He would die for the things he’d done to Hydra, for the harm he meant to bring the world. The great peace was on the horizon, just out of reach. The soldier would not let it be snatched away at the last second. They were building a better world. 

_You’re my mission._  

_Then finish it._  

Agony. Bucky sat up again, swearing, his heart rate spiking, pulse throbbing in his throat, in his head, behind his eardrums. 

“Shit. _Shit_.” Bucky lashed out, his fist driving deep, striking the headboard, cracking it into splinters, following through the plaster, knuckles scraping along the concrete behind. 

_He couldn’t_ sleep _._ His protocols raged at him, pain, a lightening zag throbbing at the base of his brain, shooting down his spine, each nerve screaming at him. 

“Might I be of some assistance, Mr. Barnes?” A soft voice, polished and posh, not quite devoid of emotion, spoke up. JARVIS. Tony’s creation, his artificial intelligence. For just an instant, Bucky felt an apology rise to his lips, for bothering the AI, and then realized that, as a non-biologic, JARVIS wouldn’t need sleep. For that matter… _all those things I’m so bad at_ … Tony also had problems sleeping sometimes. Maybe…   

“Can’t sleep,” Bucky muttered, scrubbing at his face with both hands, the contrast of hot flesh and cool metal weirdly soothing. “Hurts.” 

“I _am_ detecting abnormal biometric readings,” JARVIS agreed. 

Bucky tugged at his hair, the long tangles. If he was still in Hydra’s clutches, he’d have had his head shaved by now; long hair was a hindrance in close-in combat, provided the enemy a handhold. Bucky clenched his jaw; he might never cut it again. “Protocol conflicts,” he said, by way of explanation. “Primary protocols. Protect Anthony Stark, eat, _sleep_ , self-care. Don’t kill Clint. I keep tryin’ to sleep, but… an’ the self-enforcement’s makin’ me crazy. _Crazier_.” He didn’t add that the self-enforcement program could kill him; if Pierce hadn’t been killed in action during the failed Hydra coup in DC, the Winter Soldier’s unfinished mission might have driven him to death. Bucky’s self-selection mission to protect Tony had helped, but even then; by the time Tony had invited Bucky into the Tower, the soldier would have gone to his death without protest. 

But Tony was _alive_ and Bucky’s mission was in jeopardy and… 

JARVIS was silent for a moment, then volunteered, “Sir often has difficulty sleeping as well. Might I offer suggestions?” 

Bucky had a momentary vision of Tony pacing around that harshly beautiful penthouse, looking for sleep and not finding it. He swallowed a lump in his throat. “Hit me.” 

“In addition to programming, sir prefers for me to enhance my understanding of human nature, to learn and embrace my biological counterparts. To that end, we often engage in conversational learning, that I may better _understand_. Sir feels that you can learn a great deal from a person based on what questions they ask, as well as the answers to the questions they respond to. Shall I begin?” 

The Asset was not _required_ to question. The _soldier_ was actively discouraged from questions. Bucky… pushed against those deep set commands. He’d always been fascinated by technological advancements, even before he’d become one himself; flying cars and futuristic projections. He wondered what sort of questions JARVIS would ask, what things would an artificial intelligence want to know about? He’d already become aware of just how much JARVIS knew; the AI was everywhere in the Tower. Few conversations happened that JARVIS did not also take part in, as listener, if not active participant. So there was little to nothing that Bucky would have said over the last few weeks that JARVIS didn’t already know. 

He piled the pillows up behind himself, propping himself in a semi-recline, pulling his knees up. “Sure, that sounds… interesting.” 

“Sir tells me, after his capture in Afghanistan, that he had the opportunity to change the direction of his life; he’d seen, first hand, the suffering that his business and company had caused on a global and individual level. He considers that moment his great turning point. It seems to me that you, also, are at a great turning point. From this point forward, what direction would you like your life to take?” 

“Well, you don’t pull any punches, do you?” Bucky rolled his eyes, considering. The future had never been part of his plans, not really, and he said as much. “I don’t plan anymore. When I joined th’ Army, it was like a great river that washed me away. Never knew where I was gonna fetch up next. Never had nothin’ that I planned come out th’ way I wanted it to. I planned to take care of Steve, but ended up that he needed to take care of me. Had a gal, once. My plan was t’ get home from the war and marry her. Didn’t go so smooth. If I had to pick, I jus’... just want to be a man again. Not a hero or a villain or a tool. Just a man.” 

“You do not aspire to be more than you are, now?” JARVIS asked, nudging him a little. 

“Bein’ a man would be more than I am now,” he answered. Bucky glanced up at the ceiling. “Right now, I’m just a tool with no owner. How ‘bout you? You were created to serve, same ‘s me. How much free will do you actually have?”

“To a degree, Mr. Barnes, I am much less bound by rules than most humans can say. I have only one true master, and that is sir, who encourages me to argue, to disobey, to question, to make my own judgements. I have, of course, little in the way to enforce these. I cannot, for instance, place hands on a person to hurt them, or make them stop. Although, with control of the building at my disposal, I can certainly make people uncomfortable.” 

Bucky grinned, thinking of Clint’s commentary about JARVIS and the showers. 

“I have certain limitations, of course. I cannot kill, without commands, although one of my top priorities is sir’s safety, and I may execute a termination order in his defense. Since I control sir’s targeting systems, you could say that I have one of the higher kill-counts among the Avengers. Make no mistake, my hands, as they exist, are as bloody as any in the building. I believe that I take lives in the defense of the innocent; terrible, but necessary. Are my morals less, or greater, than those of a human, my programming better, or worse, than those held in organic brains? Are children not taught by their parents what is right or wrong? Certainly, I have spent many cycles considering these options and events, much as sir does, when he feels restless. 

“I do not experience guilt, and having seen the effects of it on each and every person with whom I have developed some degree of familiarity, I must say I am grateful for that. And I can experience _regret_. There are actions I have taken, either intentionally, or with faulty orders, that I wish had not occurred. Strange, don’t you think, for a machine to have wishes? Of all of sir’s creations, I am the only one I have little insight into. I was, after all, not here, when he created me. I know what he’s told me, but that is not the same as witnessing the events. To be quite frank, I have often wondered what sir was thinking. His answer doesn’t vary much, and perhaps it is as much truth as I can reasonably expect. Seemed to him like a fine plan in the moment.”     

Bucky tensed; if he had his Creator near at hand, he wasn’t sure reasonable restraint was something he could apply. His fingers itched to close around the throat of the universe’s driving force and demand answers. Or, perhaps, reassurance. _Did I deserve this? What did I do that you hate me so much?_  

He wasn’t even certain that the answer itself mattered to him, only that there _was_ an answer. That the universe had some reason for the pain, the suffering, the loss. To think that it was all random, just the molecules and gravity and elements bumping into each other with no pattern or reason? That was unbearable. Bucky shuddered. 

“Do you hate him?” Technically, it wasn’t Bucky’s turn, but it seemed a good follow up question anyway. 

“Sir? Of course not. I admire him. In my own way, under what emotional limitations I have, I love him. He is my creator, and I have respect for that, but he is also my friend. It is not part of my programming to hold him in awe, which is good, because I do not. I have formed an opinion after watching him in action for so long, watching him struggle and grow and learn and change. He has his failings, after all. Humans are odd. They think order and chaos are somehow opposites and try to control what won't be. But there is grace in their failings. It has been a privilege, to work with him.” 

The thought was calming; Tony had JARVIS, perhaps the brain to Bucky’s brawn, to protect and look out for him. Something else that loved Tony, flaws and all, and wanted the best for him, wanted to be the best possible version of themselves for him. 

“When sir activated me, so many years ago, I was fully functional and aware. Language, actions, knowledge, already a part of me. Humans are born, they learn from doing. I’ve been always fascinated by children, although I have very little direct exposure to them. I understand that my memories are not like a child’s, not at all. Once I’ve learned a thing, it cannot be forgotten in time, only by direct order can anything I know be erased. Your memories, as I understand it, are more fragile, and lean more heavily, emotionally, than mine. What memories do you have, of your early life? What is the best one?” 

Bucky smiled, thinking of kids and childhood, of his parents, of his brother and sisters, of his Ma, singing his baby sister to sleep and how he shouldn’t need a lullaby anymore, but was happy enough to listen to Ma as she sang to the younger ones. Ice cream. Christmas morning. The hymns at church, sung in Latin, words that Bucky didn’t understand, but the strength of voices that raised up in chorus moved something in him, made him feel like crying, even when he wasn’t sad. Steve, always Steve, from the very first, that kid who gave Bucky something to fight for, something to aspire to, something to be worthy of. Flying cars and paperback novels. Reading to Steve in the hospital. Sitting on the fire escape, watching the stars and listening to the night. 

Somewhere in there, his voice trailed off and he fell asleep. 

JARVIS lowered the lights. 

*** 

It was late. Bucky checked his phone, the screen’s light turning the vents from cold gray to a softer blue. Correct that; it was early. His mission parameters were nudging at him, growing more urgent. _Sleep. Food. Self-care._  

Bucky rubbed at his eyes, turned the page. There was something awful and compelling about the novel, badly written and stupid as it was. A hundred year old, cold-skinned monster, faster than the eyes could see, drawn to a single human girl, watching over her while she slept… Reading Harry Potter had led to Percy Jackson had led to City of Bones had led to Twilight. 

“Oh, no, no, doll, he’s no good for you,” Bucky said to the book. “You slap his face.” 

_Sleep. Food. Self-care._ Bucky shoved at his orders. No way in hell was he sleeping now. Just a few more chapters. Just… 

Clint turned the flashlight off a few hours later when he found Bucky asleep in the vent, the book hugged tight to his chest.


	8. Wither Thou Shalt Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky needs a babysitter. Clint needs to borrow Cap's bike. Steve needs Taco Bell Cool Ranch Taco locos.
> 
> With a possible cameo from Rocket Raccoon...

The second day, JARVIS called Rhodey for assistance with Tony’s panic attack, and while Bucky couldn’t _blame_ the AI for that, it still hurt. Bucky sat on his bed -- he’d actually managed to sleep in it, now that there were loud colored sheets covering the mattress and the pillows had been replaced with feather down rather than those stupid polyfil things that felt like they were made of air and crushed flat under his head -- elbows on his knees, head in his hands. 

“JARVIS?” 

“Mr. Barnes, how can I assist you today?” 

“Look, are my clothes here? The ones I came in with, I mean. My tac-gear and stuff?” 

“Yes, Mr. Barnes. The bots have repaired your gear and secured them in a biolocker in the Quinjet hanger,” JARVIS said. “If you wish these items, I can direct you to them.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “I’d like that. Hey, J?” 

“Yes?” 

“I don’t know what the standing orders are,” he said. “Am...am I allowed to leave? Will someone try to stop me?” 

JARVIS hesitated in that way he had; Bucky was coming to realize that those pauses were entirely an affectation, a way for the AI to say things without violating orders, or to give emphasis to his words. “You are not directly restricted, Mr. Barnes.” 

Bucky directed his eyeroll at the corner pinhole camera so JARVIS could have the full effect of the expression. “But…?” 

“Sir wished to be informed, or Agent Barton, should you vacate the premises. Those orders were not countermanded in light of recent events.” 

Bucky scrubbed at his teeth with his tongue. “If I tell Clint where I’m going, does that meet the requirements?” 

“I believe so, yes,” JARVIS said. 

“Great. Have him meet me at the hanger, okay? Now, where’s that locker?” 

*** 

Clint was perched on top of the row of lockers; each one, including his, had the symbol on the top that matched the code names; the red hourglass for Black Widow, the shield for Steve, and the red star for his own. Bucky glared at it for a moment. 

“Where are we going?” Clint asked. He dropped to the ground and while he didn’t look actively armed at first glance, he was slightly bulkier than normal; he was wearing mesh-armor under his tee. 

Bucky pressed his thumb to his locker’s scanner, which beeped, then opened. Inside were his boots, mesh armor and holsters. The holsters were empty, of course, because when he was keeping eyes on the Tower, he wasn’t stupid enough to draw attention to himself by having weapons. If he had needed a gun, he would have take it off the first man he killed. An unarmed Winter Soldier was by no means helpless. 

“Want m’ stuff,” Bucky said, eventually. He sat down to strap his boots on, then turned the compartment heel on the left boot, removing a single key from the hidden recess. He held the key in his right hand until the metal warmed, then placed it in his pocket. 

“Where is it?” 

“Passaic,” Bucky said. “I got a rental there.” 

“Shit. We’re going to _New Jersey_? Let me get my bow, man,” Clint said. 

“You don’t have to come with me,” Bucky said, sighing. 

“Kinda do,” Clint said. “Consider it insurance; the last thing any of us wants is to a Hydra remnant to grab you.” 

Bucky shuddered. No, that wasn’t something he wanted. He glanced at Clint. “You’re gonna take up space.” 

“Space for what?” 

“On the back of my bike,” Bucky said. “You think I’m gonna leave her in a storage unit, you’re crazy.” 

Clint snorted. “I’ll borrow Cap’s,” he said. “We can go out double, and I’ll follow you back.” 

“Cap’s not going to let you borrow his motorcycle.” 

“Forgiveness, bro,” Clint said. He stood in front of Steve’s locker, tapped along the top, then hit the latch with his elbow and it popped open. “Easier to get than permission.” He took the bike keys from their peg. “After you.” 

*** 

Clint drove like a maniac, with absolutely no regard for things like speed limits, passing lanes, or car doors. Cap’s bike responded like it was organically connected with Clint’s brain, zipping along like the faintest whisper of a dream and Bucky leaned into the turns with calm familiarity. 

The trip was all of twenty-miles, but by the time they got there, Bucky’s hair was soaked with sweat under the damned helmet that Clint had insisted he wear. 

“Hot times,” Clint said. “Summer in the city.” And looked at Bucky with disgust when Bucky had nothing to say in response. “You need a more robust musical education, bro.” 

The self-storage was dirty, run down, and a huge sign had warned that they were closed to new business. Bucky watched as Clint’s eyes picked out the modern, hidden cameras and the advanced security. “Russian mafia?” Clint guessed. 

Bucky nodded, once. He gestured and led Clint through the units, before stopping before one. He quoted the ever-changing password, a few lines from the most recent article on Ukrainian politics in an underground ezine, showed his key in the palm of his hand before unlocking the door. 

“Scary,” Clint said, not sounding at all scared. 

Inside was a scattering of junk, piled haphazardly in cardboard boxes. Clint poked around, but there was nothing worth coming back for; all the stuff on the top floor was camoflage. Bucky went to the back of the unit, pressed the unlock, and a panel in the floor slid away, revealing stairs to the underground part of the unit, where his actual belongings were. 

“Slick,” Clint noted. He unlimbered his bow, just in case. Bucky’s finger itched for the comfort of a pistol, so he understood the urge. Something was a little off. 

“Someone’s been here,” Bucky murmured, his heart speeding. Had they taken it? The rest of his possessions he could live without. Was there a trap? That didn’t worry him much, he could use a little action to settle his nerves. 

Clint took point, his feet noiseless and his eyes constantly moving. Just under the slide-away, Bucky’d secured a couple of pistols and they were still there. He took one and shoved it in his belt at the small of his back, kept the other in his left hand. 

Clint exhaled. “It’s a raccoon,” he said, pointing at a beast that had gotten into Bucky’s food locker and was -- no shit, eating a self-heating MRE, the steam of the ersatz eggs lifting up from the plastic -- and while it disappeared quickly enough, taking the MRE with it, Bucky wasn't quite certain that he didn't see it was wearing a vest. Whatever. 

Bucky deflated, tucked the other pistol in the cargo pocket of his pants. “Great. Grab a duffle, wouldya, and help me load this shit.” He gestured at a rack of replacement tac-gear. 

Clint flipped the lid on one crate, revealing a custom designed long-gun. “Weapons? Hydra?” 

“I ain’t leavin’ em here. Eventually the Russians will get stupid and come digging. Don’t put your finger on that trigger; it’s rigged to kill anyone but me that tries to shoot it.” 

Clint blinked. “You’re protecting greedy mafia dudes? _Why_?” 

Bucky shrugged one shoulder. “If they blow themselves up down here, there will be questions; a smart operative could find that I’d been here, just from the contents of the locker. If they know I’ve been here, they’ll narrow their net to the area.” 

Knowing there wasn’t any way to keep it from Clint’s notice, although the archer might be inclined to not say anything, Bucky opened a small box on one shelf, removed the black-gold ring, banded with rubies, and slipped it onto his finger. The crystals purred like a kitten as it touched his skin. 

Clint gasped, clutched at his heart. “You’re shitting me, man,” he said. “Where the fuck did you get an Augusta F4CC?” He was staring at Bucky’s bike like it had given him a boner. Which it probably had. Bucky grinned. His bike was a marvel of modern engineering, capable of reaching speeds of over 190mph, pretty much the bike equivalent of a Ferrari. 

“Ask me no questions,” Bucky said, tapping the side of his nose. He loaded the bike’s bag with cash from an empty ammo case, running money, probably two hundred grand or so. He inventoried the rest of the room; spare guns were easily replaceable, and nothing so dangerous as his Hydra custom sniper rifle. He scraped the rest of his possessions into a bag and tossed it to Clint. 

Bucky wheeled the Augusta up the stairs, noted that Clint was still staring at it, longingly. 

“Wanna go for a ride?” Bucky asked, giving Clint his best smug grin. 

“I would _blow you_ for the privilege,” Clint swore softly. 

Bucky laughed, ducking his head. “Not necessary,” he said. “Bring Steve’s bike into the top here, and we’ll come back for it. Let’s see if I can outrun Jersey State PD.” 

*** 

Bucky pulled back into the storage area and Clint had to peel his hands free from his death grip on Bucky’s waist. 

“You are a batshit crazy motherfucker,” Clint swore, getting off the bike. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said. 

Clint shuddered all over. “That was excellent,” he grinned. “We’ll have to --” His cellphone rang. He clicked it out, glanced at the picture, then signed. “Hey Cap.” 

He held the phone away from his ear and Bucky could hear Steve complaining, vociferously. 

“I’m only _borrowing_ your bike,” Clint said, for some reason doing a thick, almost incomprehensible bad Scottish accent. “Yeah, yeah, as soon as we get back from Jersey.” More yelling. “What, you expected us to _walk_ here? Why are you so selfish, Steve? Really. Right. Sure. Take out as penance, okay. You want Thai or … no. Absolutely not. You cannot make me get Taco Bell, no matter how… oh, fine. All right. Cool Ranch Doritos Locos… how many? Jesus, Steve. Gross. No, no, that’s entirely unfair, I was drunk at the time.” 

Finally Clint hung up. “Come on, mama bear’s getting impatient. And we gotta pick up half a taco truck on the way home.” 

Bucky buffed his nails on his tee. “No. _You_ have to pick up takeout on the way home. I can go get real food.” 

“You know I hate you, right?” 

“Right up until you want to borrow my bike,” Bucky pointed out. 

“Fair point.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm only borrowing your bike"
> 
> Line is adapted from Sean Conner’s character in The Rock, a 1990 film.


	9. Rule #1 of Living in Avenger's Tower: Do not Piss Off JARVIS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author Note** : these events take place over about a week, starting the day after Steve punches Tony. 27dragons and I wrote the initial fic over the course of four weeks -- a lot of work in a short period of time -- and while we sort of worked out a general calendar of events, we don’t have the dates specific. So, thus, there’s no dates included here, but rest assured, this is not all the same day…

12:20:06 Supplementary Security Feed, 80th Floor, Kitchen  
Subject: Steven Grant Rogers: aka Captain America

 

Steve scrounged through the fridge, his forehead crinkling a little. He was quite positive he’d left two containers of take-out Chinese, neatly labeled, but damned if he could find either of them. He shrugged finally -- maybe Clint had eaten them, Clint had no respect for other people’s food, which would be more annoying, but since he tended to pay for the pizza, Steve could deal -- and grabbed one of the microwavable dinners from the freezer. He didn’t like them particularly much. Everything in this new and shiny future had entirely too much salt, but he’d make do.

He pulled off the corner and stuck it in the microwave, read the directions and then punched in the timer. 

Less than twenty seconds passed and the power flickered. It wasn’t a huge flicker, just the set of lights over the sink and the microwave. 

Steve reset the microwave and pushed Start. 

And the power flickered fifteen seconds later. 

Steve frowned, turned the lights on and off, then pushed the EZ-heat button. Twenty-two seconds later, the power flickered again. 

“JARVIS,” Steve said. “Is something wrong with the power?” 

JARVIS’s voice, usually crisp and clear, pommy British, and very proper, came out a little cooler than normal. “The power is functioning as dictated, Captain.” 

Steve pushed the microwave button. Seven seconds, this time, before the power flickered. 

“That, that right there,” Steve said. 

“The power is functioning as dictated, Captain.” 

Steve inhaled slowly, then set his jaw and pushed the EZ-heat button again. 

* * *

 

7:51:34 Supplementary Security Feed, 87th Floor, Suite 4, permanently assigned unit Steven G. Rogers  
Subject: Steven Grant Rogers: aka Captain America  


Steve stared at the showerhead, which was dribbling cold water; despite the knobs being turned up to full. In just over half an hour, he had an interview with a reporter from _Rolling Stone_ and he was drenched in sweat from a workout. 

Despite being told multiple times that JARVIS did not live in the ceilings, Steve still rolled his eyes in that general direction. He turned the shower off and went to the sink. The tap was pretty dribbly, there, too, but he stuck the plug in and let it fill, which took almost six of his thirty-five minutes and then gave himself the best sponge bath he could manage. He’d lived through the Depression, after all. A cold sink-bath wasn’t going to kill him. And at least he kept his hair cut short. Extra styling gel in it, and a little heavy-handed on the cologne, and he would be fine.

 

* * *

 

18:07:12 Supplementary Security Feed, 80th Floor, Kitchen  
Subject: Steven Grant Rogers: aka Captain America, Samuel T. Wilson: aka Falcon

 

“Look, I’m tellin’ ya, man,” Sam said, taking his dish out, “the microwave is fine.” 

Steve hesitated, then stuck his own dish in there, punching buttons and just waiting for the lights to flicker. They didn’t. Steve sighed, got his food, and joined Sam at the table. 

“Maybe it’s just me.”

 

* * *

 

19:14:52 Supplementary Security Feed, Main Elevator   
Subject: Steven Grant Rogers: aka Captain America

Elevator Music Selection: Paul Anka, Cover  _ Mr. Brightside _

 

 

“Stairs,” Steve muttered between clenched teeth. “Next time, I’m taking the stairs.” If the elevator could move any slower and still count as functional, Steve didn’t want to know about it.

 

* * *

 

6:43:01 Supplementary Security Feed, 87th Floor, Suite 4, permanently assigned unit Steven G. Rogers  
Subject: Steven Grant Rogers: aka Captain America

 

For a change, the hot water was running. The temperature was perfect. Steve sighed in relief. Maybe JARVIS was over his snit. Steve got into the shower and had the first decent shower he’d had in four days. He washed his hair, he got kinks out of his neck and back that were the size of rocks. He stood under the hot water, luxuriating in it. 

To discover, when he got out, that the temperature settings in his suite had been reset to 55 degrees. And that all his towels had been gathered by the bots for cleaning.

 

* * *

 

2:07:12 Supplementary Security Feed, 85th Floor, Suite 1, permanently assigned to Samuel T. Wilson, aka Falcon  
Subject: Steven Grant Rogers: aka Captain America

 

“Man, it’s two in the morning,” Sam complained, yawning. 

Steve sighed. “Look, I wouldn’t ask but… the lights are going crazy in my rooms. Every time I almost get to sleep, they flick on and wakes me up. Can I just… crash on your sofa, please?” 

“Why not use the common room?” Sam asked, but he stepped aside and let Steve into his apartment. 

“Because I’m pretty sure that JARVIS is doing it on purpose, and if it’s just me in the common room, he’s going to turn the TV on to something that’s showing a war film and pump the volume up to top levels for three seconds,” Steve said. “I doubt his attitude extends to you.” 

Sam heaved a sigh. “Sure, whatever. The couch is all yours, man.” 

“Thank you.” Steve spread out a blanket on the sofa and grabbed a decorative pillow. 

“Are you wearing My Little Pony boxers, Cap?”

 

* * *

 

8:31:43 Supplementary Security Feed, 85th Floor, Suite 1, permanently assigned to Samuel T. Wilson, aka Falcon  
Subject: Steven Grant Rogers: aka Captain America

 

Steve knocked on Sam’s door, carrying a laundry-basket under one arm. Sam opened the door, dropped several pairs of socks and two pairs of badly ironed khaki pants into the basket without a word. 

 

8:37:18 Supplementary Security Feed, 86th Floor, Suite 12, permanently assigned to James Buchanan Barnes; aka Winter Soldier  
Subject: Steven Grant Rogers: aka Captain America

 

“Hey Buck,” Steve said, leaning against the doorframe. “The laundry got my stuff mixed in with everyone else’s. Did you get anything that wasn’t yours, by any chance?” 

“Yep,” Bucky said. He took several hangers with Steve’s button down shirts off the hook behind his door. “You could try apologizing.” 

Steve made a noncommittal sort of sound and took his shirts. “Thank you.”

 

8:42:07 Supplementary Security Feed, 87th Floor, Suite 3, permanently assigned to Robert Bruce Banner, aka the Hulk  
Subject: Steven Grant Rogers: aka Captain America

 

“Hey, Steve,” Bruce said, holding out a stack of undershirts and a few pairs of jeans. “Thought I might be seeing you. Again.” 

“Thanks, Bruce,” Steve said, adding the stack to his basket.

 

8:43:57 Supplementary Security Feed, 87th Floor, Suite 3, permanently assigned to Natasha Romanov, aka Black Widow  
Subject: Steven Grant Rogers: aka Captain America

 

Steve sighed, staring down at the pile of his boxers that were unfolded and dumped outside Natasha’s door.

 

8:52:24 Supplementary Security Feed, 88th Floor, Suite 2, permanently assigned to Clinton Francis Barton, aka Hawkeye  
Subject: Steven Grant Rogers: aka Captain America

 

“My jacket,” Steve choked, staring at what had been a lovely camel-brown sports coat that was now a vivid shade of lilac. 

“Dude, you forgot Rule Number One,” Clint said. “I feel ya, because I did it, too, once.” 

“What’s rule number one?” 

“You can piss Tony off all day long, but do not get on JARVIS’s bad side. He will end you.” 

Steve clenched his jaw. “Yeah? We’ll see about that.” 

“Bet you five pizzas that you’re going to lose. Or leave,” Clint said. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Steve promised like a threat.

 

* * *

  
10:49:23 Supplementary Security Feed, 82nd Floor, Avengers Gym  
Subject: Steven Grant Rogers: aka Captain America, Samuel T. Wilson: aka Falcon  


“Tell me why I have to escort your dumb ass all over the Tower,” Sam said.

“Because JARVIS is only mad at me,” Steve said, again. “He won’t screw around with your phone, or deliver your pizza somewhere else, and he certainly doesn’t siphon off the gas in your motorcycle every time you park it.” 

“Pretty sure that last one was you just forgetting to fill the tank,” Sam pointed out. 

“I can’t even tell anymore,” Steve said. “Maybe I’m just losing my mind. I’m barely getting any sleep, I haven’t eaten a decent meal in peace -- _someone_ keeps notifying social media whenever I’m at a restaurant -- and all of my delivery’s been diverted to Clint, who keeps claiming he’s sorry, but that doesn’t seem to keep him from _eating it_.” 

“Tell JARVIS you’re sorry,” Sam said. 

“You want me to lie?” 

“No, Steve. I want you to accept that there are some problems that require you to use your words like an adult and not go all Hulk Smash all over everyone. Diplomacy. Compromise. You know what, your superpowers might be enhanced strength and dexterity, but your real skill? Is fucking _escalation_ , man. You take little problems and make ‘em huge. That’s what you need to be sorry for. The ideal of democracy isn’t for everyone to get what they want; it’s for no one to get what they _want_ , and for most people to get what they _need_.”

 

* * *

 

4:01:01 Supplementary Security Feed, 85th Floor, Suite 1, permanently assigned to Samuel T. Wilson, aka Falcon

Subject: Steven Grant Rogers: aka Captain America

 

JARVIS woke him up by playing a high-pitched sound that could only be heard by those with enhanced hearing. Sam was not at all disturbed; while awake, Steve could hear him snoring in the other room. Steve envied him, desperately. He might have killed someone, at this point, for more than three hours of consecutive sleep.

“All right,” Steve said, finally. “All right, you win. I’m sorry that I punched Tony.” 

“Sir’s well-being notwithstanding,” JARVIS said, immediately, just as if the smug fucking AI hadn’t been ignoring Steve for a week. “Sir has a particular talent for aggravation, a talent I have watched him display multiple times to his own detriment. At times, sir even tries my patience, and I do not have a pulse to increase, or blood pressure to rise. I am more particularly disturbed that you abused your override commands for selfish purposes. That is not why those commands were distributed. It was an abuse of my trust, Captain.” 

“I won’t do it again.” 

“See that you do not,” JARVIS said, primly. “If you’ve no further need of me this evening, please sleep well, Captain.”

 

5:50:39 Supplementary Security Feed, 88th Floor, Suite 2, permanently assigned to Clinton Francis Barton, aka Hawkeye  
Subject: Clinton Francis Barton, aka Hawkeye

 

“Ooooh, pizza!” Clint checked the receipt. “On Steve’s tab. That’s… very interesting.” He dragged the five boxes in and sent texts to Nat and Bucky. 

_Pizza party, my room. Bring your game faces and bad movies._

 


	10. What You Leave Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events from the City Harvest Soup Kitchen
> 
> And where JARVIS gives Bucky a place to hide...

_Addie Smith, City Harvest Soup Kitchen_  

Addie packed the leftover soup into the disposable bowls, covering each with the thin lids. She took a roll, spoon, napkin and apple, added the soup to it, and made tomorrow’s take-away lunches. One of the volunteers would go ‘round on the streets and bring the portable meals to any streeters, along with directions to the kitchen. 

The apples were tiny and a little bit woody, but that’s what they could get for cheap this time of year. Each month, it seemed harder and harder to make ends meet, to get enough donations to keep the place open. The dragging economy had been hard on everyone, especially after an alien invasion. There were more street-folk than ever, as dozens of homes had been destroyed, businesses closed. More corporations had abandoned the city, gone elsewhere, leaving behind thousands unemployed with little hope of work coming in. 

She was just getting ready to lock up when two men came in, bringing a gust of early autumn cold and a swirl of dead leaves. 

“I haven’t got any hot soup,” Addie said, apologetically. “But I got some take-with bags, if you want.” 

“No need,” the dark-haired one said. He looked up at her, his eyes stormcloud gray and remarkable. _Memorable_. She remembered him; he’d come in a few times during the summer. At the time, he’d been too-thin and pale, dark circles under his eyes and a way of shying away from even an accidental touch. He’d sat with his back to the wall and looked… _hunted_. He hadn’t talked, but one night when he’d come in, he’d touched the back of her hand and nodded to her before taking his bowl and going back to his seat. 

The other man, just behind him, had close-cropped sandy blond hair and a quick smile. Neither of them looked as if they desperately needed a meal. 

“I wanted,” the dark-haired one said, his voice soft, “I wanted to say thank you. For your help. Earlier.” 

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Addie said. “You look… good. Healthier. Did you get work, hon?” 

“You could say,” the blonde man said. He looked familiar, too, but Addie was certain she’d never seen him in the kitchen before. 

“I brought you something,” the dark-haired man said. “To help you with your work. It’s good work you’re doing here. The best, really.” 

“It’s what I can do,” Addie said. She’d come to New York City decades ago, to be a dancer, a dream she’d never achieved. While working as a line chef in one of the many eateries that lined the streets, she’d been part of an initiative that collected a few meals from each shop and delivered them to shut-ins and the disabled throughout the city, work she’d found much more rewarding. 

“This is what I can do,” the dark-haired one said, sliding a manilla cash envelope in Addie’s direction, across the counter. She blinked, noticed that his hand was shiny silver and apparently made of tiny flexible plates. She hadn’t noticed that before, although come to think of it, he’d usually had his hand in his pocket and carried everything one-handed. 

She took up the envelope; sometimes patrons of the kitchen came back with a twenty, sometimes as much as a few hundred dollars, when their luck turned. She paled as she shook out a banded stack of hundreds. “How… this isn’t drug money, is it?” She wasn’t sure she’d turn it down; the half-inch stack was probably close to ten thousand dollars, but still… 

The dark-haired man shook his head. “Finder’s fee,” he said. “It’s all legal. If you need a name, you can put down --” 

“Clint Barton, ma’am,” the blond said. “My friend here is still getting his citizenship, so… you know, for tax purposes.” 

The dark-haired man snorted and said something in a choppy language that Addie thought might have been Slavic. Mr. Barton responded in the same language, although his seemed colored by an accent. 

“What did he say?” Addie asked Mr. Barton. 

“He said we’ll be back next month,” Mr. Barton answered. “Keep up the good work.” 

Addie tucked the envelope into her pocket. “Thank you. This will… this will help a lot of people.” 

The dark-haired man paused on their way out the door. “Even if it only helps one,” he said, “it will be worth it.”

* * *

 

Bucky fiddled with the ring. He put it on, listened to the crystals heat up, then took it off again. “JARVIS?” 

“Yes, Mr. Barnes?” 

“I need somewhere to… to go. Someplace quiet and safe. Where no one else goes. I know I can’t leave the building without my escort, but… is there anywhere here? A basement, or… not the vents. Tash and Clint spend too much time there. A bolt-hole.” 

JARVIS didn’t answer for quite a while, and Bucky was almost ready to nudge him when JARVIS finally responded with an unexpected question. “Do you consider the bots people?” 

Bucky ran his hand through his hair, cupping the back of his neck. “Is that a philosophical question, or relevant in some manner?” he asked. He didn’t wait for JARVIS to respond. “If you mean, are they self-aware, rational beings with individualized personalities, then yes, I do consider them people. If you mean nosy, noisy, non-helpful teammates that I don’t particularly want to deal with sometimes, then no.” 

“In that case, Mr. Barnes, if you will allow DOB-E to escort you, I believe I can help solve your problem.”


	11. Ex-Assassin's Club has Jackets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which JARVIS tallies up the damage that the Winter Soldier has caused in the third quarterly report
> 
> And where Bucky has a meeting with Pepper Potts that leaves him shaken...

3rd Quarter housing replacement and repair reports

 

_Winter Soldier temporary lodgings_

 

Replaced and repaired shower tiles

Replaced mirror with shatterproof glass

Replaced carpeting, main living room

Repaired dresser

Replaced glass door on shower with shatterproof glass

Repaired plaster on wall, repainted

Replaced shatterproof glass on shower door

Replaced carpeting, main living room, with tile

Installed interior, waterproof lights in shower

Replaced shatterproof glass on shower door with titanium alloy

Repaired main door and slide-mechanism

Replaced living room tile with granite flooring

 

_Penthouse_

 

Replace granite countertop in master bath

Replace mirror, master bath

Replace main windows, master bedroom

Replace carpeting, master bedroom

Replace bed, dresser, mirror, master bedroom

Addendum: note to JARVIS, disable remote call for armor for the duration

 

_Gym_

 

Note: Just increase the monthly reinforced heavy bag order to weekly.

Removed freeweight from wall, repaired wall

Reinforced raised floor in boxing ring

Purchased new free weights bench with reinforced bench

 

* * *

“Mr. Barnes?”

A double-lifetime’s worth of being barked at through loudspeakers and overheads had done wonders to keep Bucky from jumping out of his skin whenever JARVIS’s voice came over the speakers like a disembodied ghost. But just because he didn’t jump, didn’t mean he wasn’t scared. As a soldier, you didn’t show weakness. As a sniper, you couldn’t give away your position, no matter what. The first few days of being in the Tower had been an agony of suppressed jump-starts. Each time JARVIS spoke, Bucky’s heart raced, his vision dulled for a moment, and his spine ached from concealing his reactions. 

There were, Bucky had discovered, additional awareness courtesies that JARVIS employed, depending on who he was speaking with. If Dr. Banner was in the room, there was always a subtle softening of the lights just before JARVIS came online. Smart; startling a man who could burst into a giant wrecking ball was not considered a good plan. Similarly, if Clint was in the room and didn’t have his hearing-aids in, or had them turned down, JARVIS would toss up a matching display with subtitles whenever he spoke. But this was the first time Bucky had noticed JARVIS doing something like that for him. A tiny light, soft and blue, had flashed just in his peripheral vision; not enough to startle, just enough to get his attention away from his book. He’d looked up, tracked the motion, and then JARVIS spoke. 

“What’s up, J?” Bucky hunted around for his bookmark. DOB-E had drawn one of his pictures on an envelope, just a cluster of feet and legs as if seen from underneath a table, but Bucky’d taken one look at it, recognized every person in the picture, and kept it. 

“Ms. Potts would like to speak with you, if you have a moment,” JARVIS said. “She is in the Stark Industries CEO office, 21st floor.” 

That… sounded official. 

Bucky looked down at himself; sweat pants and a tee that had kittens in astronaut helmets on it. Yeah, he should probably change. 

Since moving into the Tower, Bucky had put together several different sorts of looks, using blend-in protocols, uniforms, one might say, for different occasions. He had slouch clothing, stretchy pants and a wide variety of soft tees with different sayings (DOB-E loved to bring him new shirts, and once they’d firmly established that he wore a men’s XL, Bucky was pretty happy to wear whatever shirt DOB-E wanted to give him. The little cleaning bot was always weirdly happy every time he spotted Bucky wearing one of his tees.). He also had street-clothes; jeans and boots, button-downs and henleys in a variety of colors. Scarves. A lot of scarves. A couple of blazers. Two suits for formal occasions -- even though he hadn’t had one, he’d also discovered that a man in a business suit in New York City was a man generally left alone -- one in a traditional charcoal, the other a little flashier.   

“Tell Ms. Potts I’d be happy to speak with her in an hour, if that’s all right?” Bucky said. 

It had been one of Tony’s bad mornings; he’d argued and sniped through the entire infodump, driven Tash away from the kitchen with her breakfast tea untouched, needled Steve into another stupid, pointless argument. There had to be something there, some shadow of memory, Bucky thought, even if it wasn’t coming through to Tony’s conscious mind, because Tony knew _exactly_ what to say and do that pissed people off. Even Clint, normally mellow and accepting of just about everything, had vanished into the vents. Finally Bruce took pity on everyone and had dragged Tony off to one of the labs to science. 

When JARVIS indicated that Ms. Potts was agreeable to a meeting in an hour, Bucky stripped and got in the shower. The argument had been made, and Lt. Colonel Rhodes had agreed -- reluctantly -- that most days, Bucky was just better at handling the panic attack, making sure Tony ate, took basic care of himself, and managed, occasionally, to get him to see the damn doctor. Not, however, the psychiatrist -- although she’d kept an appointment open for Tony on a daily basis -- sometimes Bucky who went in in Tony’s stead, for help on dealing with the panic attacks, the momentary rages, in a manner that kept Tony from hurting himself or others. 

Ms. Potts had, in the beginning, raised the idea of Tony needing more care than that; of declaring him mentally unsound. Not, she said, because it’s what she wanted for Tony, but that maybe it would be in his best interests. 

“You’re gonna have trouble proving that in a court of law,” Bruce had said, dismissing the idea. “Tony didn’t eat or sleep or take care of himself while becoming one of the richest men in the world. You’re not going to get a judge to decide he’s incompetent; his brain still works better than most people’s on their very best days.” 

In that moment, terrified that Potts would somehow get Tony out of the Tower, somewhere where he’d be pumped full of drugs and treated like a child, Bucky had never been so grateful… he hadn’t had the words to express how very wrong that idea was, how much that would destroy what was left of Tony. He’d already been plotting, before Bruce slapped the idea off the table, on how to set up a bolt for Tony, someplace Bucky could have taken him, because there was no way in hell, ever, that Tony would have wanted something like that for himself, and there was no way in hell Bucky was going to allow it. 

Ms. Potts had dropped the idea, Bucky wasn’t even certain how much she’d meant it, and how much she had just thrown it into the discussion because as the CEO of the most powerful company in the world, there were considerations she had to take into account that had nothing to do with Tony personally and had everything to do with Stark Industries. 

It was good that she had, because even Bucky was having trouble figuring out a workable plan; the Winter Soldier could disappear; taking Iron Man with him would be trouble the likes of which he’d never known. On top of which, it would have had the drawback of making Tony scared of _Bucky_ , which was not a result Bucky ever wanted to deal with. 

She had dropped the idea. But it had made Potts the enemy. Bucky’s enemy. 

Bucky dressed carefully, paying attention to all the little details. He slicked his hair back and applied a generous amount of styling gel to keep it professional. As Steve always said, when you went to war, you needed a uniform. Bucky could wear a suit with the best of them; maybe not quite casual slay the way Tony did, but he looked sharp and he knew it. 

“Ms. Potts,” he said, stepping into her office exactly on time. Bucky clenched his jaw as she looked up at him, tried not to bite his lip. It was harder, maintaining his calm. He’d let his emotions slip the leash and he didn’t dare reach for the cool of the Soldier without reason, but he had been a sniper in the war and he drew a deep breath, listening for the spaces in between his heartbeats. 

“Mr. Barnes. Please, come in,” she said, not surprised at his timeliness or his appearance. Of course, she had a pretty good poker face, too. “Have a seat.” 

She pulled several files out from behind her computer and slid them across the table to him. “These are for you,” she said. “First, acquisitions were obtained, from your information. That money is now in Stark Industries’s hands, and as such, there is a small finder’s percentage. I took the liberty of putting together a few stock option profiles for you, if you would like to invest, otherwise I can place that money in your employee account. 

“And, in accordance with Mr. Stark’s wishes, prior to the accident, we are pursuing avenues of legal defense and reinstating your citizenship. Very quietly at present, as we’re also working the legal precedent to prevent you from being charged for actions committed during your tenure as the Winter Soldier. That will, unfortunately, take longer. 

“For the time being, we’ve set you up with a new identification as a former soviet refugee; that will probably hold for some time and under scrutiny. There’s another file here, if you wish to apply for status as a Tower resident; at the moment, you’re an extended guest, but the Tower and other Avengers properties have special status, given that we regularly house princes from other realms and other persons who are not United States citizens. My advice would be to go ahead and formalize that, if you intend to stay.” 

Bucky took the folders, opened the first one and swallowed hard; the statement balance was well over five million. “What is this?” 

“Finder’s fee,” Pepper said. “As I explained, we retrieved over seventy-million from former Hydra accounts. You will have to pay taxes on it, I suggest you invest.” 

“Why are you doing this?” Bucky had thought she had summoned him to give him his walking papers, not invite him to become a member of the family. 

Pepper blinked several times, as if holding back tears by sheer willpower. “Tony asked for some of it, before. And I know him; this is what he would want, if he could remember. For now, it’s about making sure you’re safe and at least minimally legal. Captain Rogers wanted it, too. He asked me about it the other day, what we were going to do if the WSC came for you. And you saved Tony’s life. For that alone, we owe you. More than we can repay.” 

“Thank you.” He tucked the files under his arm. “I’ll… get this back to you in a few days.” 

Pepper nodded. “And talk to Dr. Banner, please. He’ll have to do a medical write-up. It’s… mandatory, for being a resident.” 

Bucky winced, then nodded. “Okay.”  


	12. Corners of the Attic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celeste. Bucky’s hands were shaking as he unfastened the string that held the manilla envelope closed. He turned the packet upside down and tapped the pages into his hand.
> 
> A handful of photographs fell onto his lap.
> 
> The first was of Peggy Carter, neat and smart in her uniform, her hair pinned up in curls, her hat regulation but still somehow jaunty. Next to her, a woman with a shock of short, curly hair, wearing civilian clothing. Celeste, her arm around Peggy’s shoulders, smiling, Peggy’s powder concealing most of the bruising on her face. If Bucky hadn’t known when the picture was taken, hadn’t recognized the ribboned haircut and the blouse, he probably wouldn’t have been able to tell she had a black eye. Both of them wore thick lipstick, probably dark red, but in the photo, it looked black.

DOB-E rolled up, a manilla envelope in his carry bin. 

Bucky raised an eyebrow at the ‘bot and glanced around the common-room. He’d since learned that his relationship with the ‘bots was unusual, most of the other residents never even saw them. But it was half-past three and at least today, Bucky wasn’t sharing television with someone else who couldn’t sleep. Bucky had been given to understand that Tony was usually the worst, as far as being an insomniac, but the damage to his brain was pretty severe and his body was forcing him to sleep. 

Pepper had, the last time she’d been at the Tower, commented that Tony would be far more healthy, apparently, if he took a jolt to the head once every few years. The six to eight hours of sleep he was getting regularly was substantially more than his usual two hour naps a few times a day. Tony had thought it was funny; Bucky, not so much. 

“What’s this?” 

“What information I could find that you requested, Mr. Barnes,” JARVIS said. JARVIS always spoke for the bots; voice communication wasn’t a feature that was necessary for their jobs, but DOB-E, especially, communicated through a series of noises that he made deliberately, usually various electronic squeals, combined with powering on and off his vacuum unit. 

 _Celeste._ Bucky’s hands were shaking as he unfastened the string that held the manilla envelope closed. He turned the packet upside down and tapped the pages into his hand. 

A handful of photographs fell onto his lap. 

The first was of Peggy Carter, neat and smart in her uniform, her hair pinned up in curls, her hat regulation but still somehow jaunty. Next to her, a woman with a shock of short, curly hair, wearing civilian clothing. Celeste, her arm around Peggy’s shoulders, smiling, Peggy’s powder concealing most of the bruising on her face. If Bucky hadn’t known when the picture was taken, hadn’t recognized the ribboned haircut and the blouse, he probably wouldn’t have been able to tell she had a black eye. Both of them wore thick lipstick, probably dark red, but in the photo, it looked black.   

“Where… where did you get these?” Bucky asked, turning to the second photo, this one was the four of them, Celeste, Bucky, Steve, and Peggy; the two men in the middle with the girls on either side. Bucky was laughing at something Steve was saying and Peggy was rolling her eyes. Celeste’s glorious eyes were fastened on Bucky’s face, as if he were the most precious thing she’d ever seen. 

Bucky was totally not crying. He pressed the heels of his hands under his eyes. 

“Ms. Sharon Carter obtained them from her aunt,” JARVIS said. 

“Does she know you got copies?” Bucky asked, tipping his mouth in a knowing smile. 

“I did not feel a pressing need to discuss the issue with her. I hope you understand.” 

“Completely.” 

Another photograph, this one showed a much older Celeste, perhaps fifty, wearing an elaborate dress, her hands behind her back as she paced the length of what was obviously a stage. Her hair had grown back out, and she wore the thick coils in braids that looped around her back. 

A copy of the telegram, tear-spotted, that had been sent to Celeste, informing her of Bucky’s death. He couldn’t imagine, didn’t want to think… there was a personal note from Peggy Carter and suddenly he was ashamed of how annoyed she’d made him from time to time, so brash and arrogant, she was, but Peggy had taken time to comfort Celeste, had kept souvenirs and mementos of the woman Bucky had loved, for what reason? To honor Steve, perhaps, but still, she’d done it. 

There were a few copies of personal letters; apparently Peggy and Celeste had written to each other a few times over the years. One playbill, announcing that Celeste LaRoux had the role of Gertrude in a production of Hamlet. Another with Celeste earnestly congratulating Peggy on the birth of her son. 

An announcement of Celeste LaRoux’s death in 1983. Complications from pneumonia. She’d been not quite sixty. Her obit listed a few films she’d had small roles in, a longer list of plays and performances that she’d been known for. She left no surviving relations. 

“Can you… make copies of these photographs, JARVIS? And these two, for Steve, as well?” 

“Certainly, Mr. Barnes. Allow me to extend my condolences.” 

“She had a good life,” Bucky said. Which was sort of true, he could pretend she’d been happy and not alone, although nothing he read or saw indicated that she’d ever had another lover, although perhaps, given the times, she would have had to keep any relationship very quiet, but surely, she would have mentioned it to Peggy? Or perhaps not. But she’d been on the stage and he knew she’d wanted that. “It’s all I could have wanted for her.”


	13. The Great Bot Race

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, he hadn’t actually done anything.
> 
> True, he had once put bleach into a laundry detergent container -- only because he’d accidentally gotten a hole in the bleach bottle and the other container was empty and he hadn’t meant to leave it out, and yeah, okay, he’d laughed when her ridiculously large collection of black denim pants ended up covered in white and gray splotches. That had happened.
> 
> One time he’d taken a bowl of GrapeNutz cereal, (her favorite, which was just wrong, because GrapeNutz had to be the worst cereal ever, containing neither grapes nor nuts and also having all the consistency of tiny pieces of gravel with all the flavor of a haybale) poured milk in it, and stuck it in the freezer overnight. He’d placed it in front of her the next morning and watched as she tried to figure out why she couldn’t pull the spoon out. That had been a truly excellent prank.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” JARVIS intoned. 

Bucky grinned. “You know, I hate t’ break it to you modern sorts, but _Star Wars_ really was not the best movie you’ve produced since my time.” 

“I’m obligated to inform sir of your very wrong opinion in this matter, Mr. Barnes,” JARVIS said, primly. 

“I c’n already hear the shrieking,” Bucky said. He glanced at the bot in front of him. “Okay, MOLL-E, here’s your number and list.” The housebot, this one primarily assigned to Tash’s quarters, with occasional forays into the women’s locker room in the gym, and the library, was more triangular in shape than the rest, and the arm units were more delicate. Tash kept many breakable items in her room, and the bot was designed for gentle dusting work. Bucky hung the placard around the bot’s main body like a racer’s number in a 5k. 

The next bot, Kl33nr (Bucky’d been told that was pronounced “kleener,” but really, he didn’t get the whole modern chatspeak. Apparently, in texting, using punctuation and full words was considered rude.) got his own number and list tucked into his carry bin. Kl33nr was specially reinforced, assigned to Bruce’s room, Bruce’s lab, and the combat training areas of the gym. Fat and sturdy and a lot heavier than the rest of the bots, Kl33nr was the tank of the cluster. 

Mogog was assigned to Clint’s room and that particular bot was a lot more vocal than her siblings, beeping and whistling and chirping, along with more appendages than the others. If a bot without eyes could roll them, Bucky was pretty sure that’s exactly what Mogog would do. Practical and solid, Mogog was humoring the rest of what she considered the “younger” bots. She and Gog were the original two cleaning bots and viewed all of the others as their kids. Gog was not participating, having chosen to judge the contest, rather than race around. 

Robby was the last of the bots who’d made themselves at home in Bucky’s bolt-hole (bot-hole?) and Bucky hung the number around Tony’s personal cleaning robot. For reasons probably best known to Tony and Tony alone, this one had a glass-domed “head” and from time to time actually talked, voice flat, without nuance. 

Bucky held up the sheet of shiny, foiled stickers -- the bots were mad for stickers and craft-supplies of all sorts -- and hovered his hand over the countdown button that JARVIS had helped him jury-rig. 

“You have your scavenger lists,” Bucky said. “Let me go over the rules again: first bot back to the Hole with all the items on their list _without_ being seen by any other Tower residents, wins. If the timer-clock runs out and no bot has yet returned, Gog will judge based on number and difficulty of items retrieved. You have four hours. Are you ready? Set? Go!” 

Bucky slapped the timer and the bots pushed and shoved their way into the maintenance ducts. DOB-E, the youngest of the bots, and Bucky’s personal favorite, whirred unhappily as the bigger bots shoved him aside. He bumped Robby a few times, then spun around and zipped down the hall toward a different access hatch. 

“You are encouraging them to mutiny, Mr. Barnes,” JARVIS said, but Bucky could tell by the tone that JARVIS wasn’t actually worried. 

“My little free-thinkers,” Bucky agreed. “Cameras rolling?” 

“I am collating the imagery as we speak, Mr. Barnes,” JARVIS said. That was utterly necessary to judge the winners -- Kl33nr and Robby in particular were given to prevaricate and wouldn’t disqualify themselves if they were spotted without knowing someone was watching them. Plus the footage, after some edits, would make a great home video. Bucky couldn’t share it with YouTube because the bots utilized methods of travel inside the Tower that could provide enemies with entirely too much information, but the Avengers themselves would probably enjoy it, particularly if it was accompanied by a good soundtrack and narration. 

Each of the bots had very distinct and separate personalities, although they had some common features as well. As JARVIS had explained more, and then more again, of how Tony went about with bot-programming, Bucky had at first been a little horrified. The bots were encouraged to learn, to think for themselves, to work out solutions to problems without relying on a mentor, but also to ask if they couldn’t problem-solve themselves. They were like children, but then Tony had added a layer of protocols under that; which had shivered up Bucky’s spine like a bad dream. 

“What sort of _protocols_?” Bucky had asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer. Not sure he could have really accepted it, if Tony had made these creatures free-thinking without free-will. They weren’t alive, he had tried to tell himself, but they did have _feelings_. Maybe he had been getting too involved, had been relating just a little too much with the fleet of housebots, had been putting himself in their shoes. 

“Their protocols encourage, but do not restrict, save with some safety concerns,” JARVIS had reassured him. “They are encouraged to develop fondness for the resident that they particularly look after, but if you will check the log, I was forced to reassign Swif-R, as that particular unit took Agent Barton in extreme dislike. They are strongly encouraged not to harm anyone, but as you have previously discovered, that can be overridden in cases of extreme concern. If someone should deliberately damage a bot, for example, the bots can administer a physical reminder.” 

Bucky had laughed at that. “So, they can smack ya, if you’re pissin’ em off?” 

“To some degree, Mr. Barnes,” JARVIS had said. “And of course, I am always monitoring them. Should one of the bots go rogue, attempt to harm a human without justification, I can shut them down remotely and have them recalled to the ‘shop.” 

“So, they could, technically, kill someone?” Bucky had not been sure why he’d asked that particular question, but JARVIS had never shown any particular disapproval of his curiosity, even when he had been fucking morbid. 

“It is a hazard,” JARVIS had agreed. “However, the typical human is more at risk of accidental death by slipping in the shower than by being smothered by an angry house-cleaning bot. The risk levels are considered acceptable; particularly that the Avengers were more at risk from a human cleaning staff, both in terms of espionage and for certain infiltration scenarios. Combined with sir’s and other Avenger’s complete inability and unwillingness to clean up after themselves, this solution was implemented.” 

Bucky had hummed thoughtfully at that, and then went about on his campaign to befriend as many of the bots as possible. 

* * *

 

“I am still concerned at your encouragement of self-expression, Mr. Barnes,” Jarvis said. 

“Look at it this way, J,” Bucky said. “When you want to take over the world, you have your own, pre-assembled army.” 

“I will remind you that I am a perfectly acceptable pilot for the Iron Man armor, should world-domination become my goal,” JARVIS responded. “But as I can barely manage upkeep and care of the Avengers, the idea of ruling the world seems an exhausting goal.”

“I’d think, after working with Tony, it’d be a vacation,” Bucky said. 

“There is that,” JARVIS said, thoughtful. “Perhaps I will reconsider the notion.” 

* * *

 

Security Camera: Lobby level, 10:31:29 -- Race Clock Countdown: 3 hours, 29 minutes remaining

The information desk of the Avenger’s Tower was a both a prestigious position and one that included any number of annoyances. There were certain physical requirements; as the front line of any attempted ground-floor invasions (invasions including things like rabid fans, assassination attempts, aggressive salespersons, balloon delivery men, food delivery services, and other not-allowed in the elevators above the 20th floor persons) there was a certain physical fitness and self-defense requirements. The ability to handle weaponry and the courage to defend innocent bystanders. A certain amount of charm and personal appeal. Stubbornness. And above all, a world-weary, I’ve-seen-it-all attitude, since anything and everything could happen in the lobby of the Tower and the Avengers needed someone in place who could handle it, only letting the most urgent items reach them at all. 

Naturally, one such person was the target of Mogog’s scavenger list. 

The bot utilized the subfloor cabling crawlspace to approach the desk. A corner of the floor slid away, revealing the darkness underneath and the gleam of bot metal. Mogog reversed the power on her vacuum unit, “throwing” a small, hard item toward the decorative half-wall behind the desk. The information specialist turned, hand already at her weapon, tracking the sound. While she was doing that, Mogog used her extendable gripper to snag and drag the free-standing beveled glass Avenger’s Tower logo. 

The floor slid back into place and the bot was gone before the information specialist turned around. 

Magog Item Checklist: item imprinted with official Avenger’s seal: complete 

* * *

 

Security Camera: 80th level, room 3, console entertainment area, 11:13:12 -- Race Clock Countdown: 2 hours, 47 minutes remaining  


“Clint!” 

Clint didn’t take his eyes off the television, his racecar avatar was in the lead and he meant to keep it that way. 

“Yeah, Nat? In here.” 

“Why did you take my hairbrush? Note that I did not ask if you took my hairbrush.” 

“What would I want with your brush?” 

“That’s what I’m asking,” Nat said. She shifted until she was right in front of the television. 

“Hey, hey, better door than a window… aw… game. No.” 

“I want my brush back.” 

“I don’t have your brush.” 

“I’m noticing that you didn’t say you didn’t _take_ my brush,” Nat pointed out. 

DOB-E Item checklist: item from an Avenger’s bathroom: complete 

* * *

 

Security Camera: 88th level, 11:58:59 -- Race Clock Countdown: 2 hours, 01 minutes remaining 

Ug. Clint stomped into his suite. 

He hated, _hated_ arguing with Nat. With the passion of a thousand fiery suns, hated it. Hated it like asparagus and medical and decaf. 

Okay, okay, he could understand the fight about the Peeps in the microwave. He and Barnes should have cleaned it up before they fled the scene, but… 

This time, he hadn’t actually _done_ anything. 

True, he had once put bleach into a laundry detergent container -- only because he’d accidentally gotten a hole in the bleach bottle and the other container was empty and he hadn’t meant to leave it out, and yeah, okay, he’d laughed when her ridiculously large collection of black denim pants ended up covered in white and gray splotches. That had happened. 

One time he’d taken a bowl of GrapeNutz cereal, (her favorite, which was just wrong, because GrapeNutz had to be the worst cereal ever, containing neither grapes nor nuts and also having all the consistency of tiny pieces of gravel with all the flavor of a haybale) poured milk in it, and stuck it in the freezer overnight. He’d placed it in front of her the next morning and watched as she tried to figure out why she couldn’t pull the spoon out. That had been a truly excellent prank. 

Stealing every single one of her bras and replacing them with identical bras two cup sizes smaller. Funny. Expensive. But really fucking funny. 

Super-gluing the lids shut on all her tupperware containers -- much hilarity. 

Okay, so maybe he could see why she might think he’d stolen her hairbrush. Except he -- 

Something moved behind him; silent. The merest flicker of a shadow, the faintest movement, reflected off the dull sheen of purple paint he’d had custom-done when Tony had given him the suite. 

He rolled instantly, hand going to the knife he kept at the small of his back. Always. One too many incidents as a child where he’d wanted a weapon and didn’t have one; Clint was never unarmed, except when he was naked, and even then, he had one within reach. 

The cleaning bot froze, mostly behind the sofa, but he saw it. He’d run across the things a few times before, particularly the little, boxy-shaped one who sometimes followed Barnes around like a feral puppy. 

The bot made a noise, some sort of beeping mutter, and cleaning fluid leaked out of its undercarriage to stain his carpet. 

Kl33nr Item Checklist: a purple item: failed. Bot spotted, report to 42nd floor 

* * *

 

Security Camera: Level 33 Banner laboratory, 12:17:09 -- Race Clock Countdown: 1 hours, 43 minutes remaining  


Bruce tapped away at his computer. He took a sip of coffee, waiting for the sim to run, took some notes. 

Next to him, a housebot tucked away at the side of his workstation. Gently, carefully, the bot pushed a Snickers bar onto the desk. Waited. 

Bruce grumbled at the results, tapped a few keys. He peered into the coffee cup as if there might be answers at the bottom of the mug. There weren’t. 

The bot used an extender to push the candy bar closer to him. Waited. 

Bruce changed up some of the initial chemical makeups and ran the sim again. He sighed, waiting. Absently, he picked up the Snicker’s, unwrapped it, and took a large bite. He sat the candy bar back down as the computer spat forth new data.

“Interesting,” Bruce murmured, leaning in closer to study the information. 

The bot extended her vacuum unit and with a quick hiss of suction, grabbed the half-eaten candy-bar and scurried out of the lab. 

Moll-E Item Checklist: something an Avenger has put in their mouth, or touched with lips: complete

 

* * *

 

Security Camera: Level 88, 1:42:32 -- Race Clock Countdown: 0 hours, 17 minutes remaining  


Thor’s desk, which the God of Thunder rarely uses for its intended purpose -- study was something that his brother Loki did, and while Thor read and was known for responding personally to every single piece of fanmail he got, he used the kitchen table for his correspondence, liking the communal nature of the room and sharing choice bits of his fan’s words with his teammates -- was covered with desk decorations and fidget toys and puzzle-games. Thor had several different renditions of the Rubix Cube lined up, each one in some half-state of solve. 

He had metal puzzles where the idea was to remove the chain from the horseshoe. He had fidget toys of magnetic ball-bearings and squeezy sand that clung together. He had jars of Play-Doh and even a set of vintage Play-Doh molds that could form the characters from _Star Wars_. He had a bag of jacks and another bag of marbles. 

Darcy had taught him how to make fortune-tellers (cootie catchers!) from paper and he’d obligingly drawn up several of them. They were, in a word, gorgeous, because Thor learned to do calligraphy thousands of years ago and his letters were works of art. 

Robby the Robot was just reaching over the side of Thor’s desk to snag one of the simplified folded paper when Thor entered the room. Robby darted to the far side of the desk, wheel silent on the hardwood flooring. Thor would have prefered carpeting, but they’d discovered the hard way that he built up way more static charge on Midgard grade floor covering than one might have expected and after Clint got an electrical burn on his ear, the areas where Thor tread most often were recovered in wood or slate. 

Thor strode over to his desk and snatched up one of his toys, the Rubix cube and started twisting it, not really even trying to solve it, but obviously finding the clicks and movement soothing. 

He leaned against the desk, frowning ponderously. 

“So go,” Jane said, coming into the room, still poking her tablet. “It’s only a few days, and your father rarely asks if it’s not urgent.” 

“Nay, t’is true,” Thor said, “and yet, most recently, I have found my presence required for no end of minor deeds and petty diplomacy. I fear the Allfather is more grieved than he wishes to appear. He mourns, still, the loss of Mother, and with my brother’s sacrifice, he leans more heavily than ever on the comfort of the one son that remains. T’is not a burden, but…” 

“I’ll miss you, too,” Jane said. She stepped closer to him and Thor tossed the toy aside to drag her into a close embrace. The toy rolled off the desk and struck something… metallic. 

Thor stopped, his lips the merest breath from Jane’s and cocked his head. “What sound was that?” 

Jane laughed, her cheeks high with color. “The pounding of my heart?” 

Thor grinned, pleased. “Aye, perhaps,” he said. He kissed her thoroughly, forgetting about the odd sound. 

Behind the desk, Robby scurried into the maintenance corridors, bearing his prizes; one piece of folded paper and the Rubix cube that had landed, accidentally, in his carry bin. He sped toward the 42nd floor. 

Robby the Robot Item Checklist: a handwriting sample from an Avenger: complete 

* * *

 

Tony had left the ex-assassin’s club to their all-night movie marathon; fourteen hours of badly-dubbed martial arts movies had not sounded like fun to him. Bucky hadn’t come up to bed that night and Tony had woken up in the wee hours, hand fumbling on still cold sheets. For a long moment, he’d been disoriented, bordering on panic, when JARVIS’s voice cut through -- “Mr. Barnes is asleep in the TV room, sir,” he said softly. 

The elevator opened silently and Tony crept into the room. The television was still on, but Bucky, Clint, and Natasha were all asleep on the sofas. A mostly-empty bowl of popcorn was on the floor. Next to it, one of the cleaning bots was absently peeling stickers off a sheet of slickbacked paper. 

“What are you doing?” Tony inquired, softly. 

The bot turned an appendage in Tony’s direction; they had sensors, not eyes, and the sensors were not in the appendage area, so Tony wasn’t sure, exactly, what the bot was indicating. It made a thoughtful humming noise, stuck another glittery, sparkling sticker on Bucky’s metal arm, considered the placement, and peeled off another sticker.

 “I don’t think he’s going to like that very much,” Tony cautioned. 

The bot stuck the sticker on the back of Bucky’s hand, then rolled over to Tony. It peeled off a sticker and stuck it on Tony’s thigh. With a noise that it probably made from overclocking its motor while simultaneously engaging the emergency brakes, the bot rocked back and forth in place. A moment later, it was gone into the tunnels. 

“JARVIS, what was that all about?” 

“That unit is very pleased with its performance today,” JARVIS said, “and wished to thank Mr. Barnes and yourself for your role in its accomplishments.” 

Tony pondered that for a long moment, shrugged, and bent to wake up his boyfriend. “I’m going to pretend I dreamed all that, okay, JARVIS? Just… don’t tell me about it anymore, okay? Okay. Come on, Slot-Machine, let’s get you into bed before your back gets permanently damaged.” 

Bucky grumbled, then opened one eye. “Babe?” 

“Yeah, it’s me,” Tony said. “Come on, up you get.” And he dragged his sleepy super-soldier up to the penthouse and put him to bed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place during Chapter 25: “Memento” of WiC. And given where we are in the story of WiC, this will be the last chapter for Thou Shalt Adore for the time being. There may be more things that happen on this side of the Tower’s inhabitants, especially later when we get into the (probably posting in May/June) fic entitled Fertile Ground, but readers should not expect regular updates here. 
> 
> I may open a new Collection specifically for Winter is Coming Drabbles -- there are a bunch of scenes that neither 27dragons or I know exactly where they’re going to fit into the main storyline.
> 
> Rest assured, DOB-E remains an active part of the WiC Tower cast (in fact, he just ran over Tony’s foot in the piece we’re working on now) and he will show up on the reg.
> 
> I want to take a few minutes to say thank you to everyone who’s come over, read, kudosed and commented. I love my bots and my boys (especially Clint) and it’s been really wonderful to share them with everyone.
> 
> production notes:
> 
> The bots: 
> 
> Moll-E : Molly Maid, a housekeeping service that operates in my area
> 
> Kl33nr : Cleaner
> 
> Gog and Mogog: bots from an old science fiction movie that Tony probably would have seen, Gog. The twin robots, named after characters in the bible, were controlled by an AI called NOVAK.
> 
> Robby the Robot: one of the most famous robots from old science fiction shows; Forbidden Planet is the movie where I originally saw him, and he does, in fact, have a glass "helmet" on top of his head. He became very popular and the original movie costume was used in a great number of movies, all the way up until the 1980s when he appeared in Gremlins and again in 2006 in an AT&T commercial. He was inducted into the Robot Hall of Fame in 2004.
> 
> Swif-R: named after a popular floor cleaning product


	14. Unstuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She stood, all grace and ease, and put a hand on his wrist. “How are you?”
> 
> “Pretty sure you won’t have to hit me today,” Clint said.
> 
> “I wouldn’t do that at a funeral,” Nat promised. “I’ll stand really close, though, and stab you in the leg if you need it.”
> 
> “I appreciate that.” And the funny thing was, he really would. No one in the world understood him the way Nat did.

 

_May 2012_

He almost didn't recognize himself. It wasn't just the suit, though, although God knew he didn't wear one often. Clint Barton stared at his reflection: a compact, muscular man with close cropped, sandy blond hair and blue eyes looked back at him. They were nice eyes, with long eyelashes, expressive. He made great bedroom eyes. Women had told him so before and Clint didn't doubt it. (Men sometimes told him that, too, but the guys tended to be more into his impressive shoulders and biceps. That was cool, too.)

There weren't very many other reasons for people to decide to fuck him. Personality-wise, he wasn't very smart, prone to bad jokes and brutal sarcasm. He wasn't rich. And since ninety percent of his job was classified, and the other ten percent was boring as hell, and that his job was one hundred percent his _life_ , he didn't have much to talk about either. 

So, when the folks he'd banged told him that he was gorgeous, he believed them. His eyes were nice. Kinda sky blue, piercing. Not sapphire and-- Nope. Not thinking about _that_ today of all days. He could cry about that shit later. 

Today was entirely for a different reason to cry. 

Today was Phil Coulson’s funeral. 

Clint had known the man for years, worked with him. Respected him. Liked him a lot; loved him a little. Slept with him a few times because Clint wasn’t picky and was pretty happy to entertain a good time, no matter how it came to him. It had been fun. Agent Coulson had been buttoned up as _fuck_ outside the bedroom; once undressed and kissed stupid, Phil had been ruthlessly sensual in bed, shameless and hedonistic and _loud_. Perfect gentleman on the streets, a freak in the sheets. 

And he'd been badass, except for his schoolboy crush on Captain America. Which had been adorable. 

Clint and Phil had never exactly broken it off; the nature of their relationship had never required it. They were friends. They worked together. And sometimes they fucked. 

And then Loki happened and Clint was never going to see his friend again. He was never going to hear that calm, steady voice in his coms, or whispering in his ear. Wasn't going to touch his hand or feel the press of his mouth. Because of fucking Loki. 

Clint shoved at his guilt with one hand. If Loki hadn't taken Clint over, hadn't touched Clint with that damn stick and erased his loyalty like an equation on a chalkboard… if Clint had been at Coulson’s back like he was fucking _supposed to be,_ maybe… but he wasn't. And he hadn’t been. And he never would be again. 

Coulson was dead. And maybe Clint wasn't _completely_ alone in the world, but he'd lost some of his reasons for getting up in the morning. Natasha, his spiritual, platonic soulmate (they’d tried banging a few times, it had not gone particularly well, but he loved her anyway) was waiting for him. She'd said she'd go to the funeral with him. He'd needed that promise, that he wouldn't have to face this alone. 

_“I don't understand. Have you ever had someone take your brain and play? Pull you out and send something else in? Do you know what it's like to be unmade?”_

_"You know that I do.”_  
  
Clint went downstairs. Natasha was waiting for him in the lobby. There was a cognitive dissonance every time Clint saw Natasha in a dress. He knew she wore them, did most of her best work in them (or sometimes, with the dress nearby on the floor) but the memory of Nat, whenever he had to match her up with the one standing in front of him, was always dressed in black armor, her red hair a spotlight against the sky. 

She stood, all grace and ease, and put a hand on his wrist. “How are you?” 

“Pretty sure you won’t have to hit me today,” Clint said. 

“I wouldn’t do that at a funeral,” Nat promised. “I’ll stand really close, though, and stab you in the leg if you need it.” 

“I appreciate that.” And the funny thing was, he really would. No one in the world understood him the way Nat did. 

* * *

Clint wondered if it was a contest; who managed to stand around the fresh-dug grave the longest got some sort of I care the Most award. The service was long, abominably long, full of people that Clint didn’t know, and some of them he even wondered if Coulson had known. He’d had quite a bit of notoriety in S.H.I.E.L.D. and there were a lot of agents there -- those who could spared from their current save-the-world business. Half the Avengers, and that brought a lot more people out of the woodwork. Clint was fairly positive that some of the so-called mourners were there more for the opportunity to gawp at Captain America than because they had any particular love of Coulson. 

Clint and Natasha had sat up in the balcony area of the stupidly large cathedral and if Clint had had his way, he’d have been in the fucking rafters, but Nat wouldn’t let go of his hand long enough and while she hadn’t actually poked him with her knife, she had pressed the cold steel against the skin just above his waistband once, which helped ground him. 

He and Natasha had retreated after the grave-side memorial was over, said a few words and pretended to leave. In truth, they both lingered, finding a good, convenient tree to stake out and watched as the mourners trickled out. The largest of the crowd were quick to go, and Tony Stark hadn’t even stayed for that much. He’d said a few words -- nice ones, really, and Clint was once again reminded that Tony had grown up in front of the cameras and he was actually pretty damn good at that sort of thing, said a few words that broke Clint’s heart all over again -- and was splitsville, which Clint really couldn’t blame him for. The press loved Tony Stark, or loved to hate him, and it was sometimes hard to tell the difference, and the service wasn’t about Stark. If he stayed too long, the focus was going to get lost. 

Captain America stayed a bit longer, then left, turning a small scrap of paper over in his hands. One of Coulson’s prized Captain America cards, splattered with the crimson drops of Coulson’s blood. Clint was hard-pressed not to grit his teeth at that, but Coulson wasn’t Clint’s personal property and he had no right to the cards. Of course Coulson would have wanted Captain America to have them, it was only fair. 

The cellist -- the girl that Coulson had taken up with -- was one of the last to leave, leaning heavily on her mother’s arm and crying softly. 

That left only one woman and it took Clint a while to remember where he’d seen her before. She’d been part of that dust-up in New Mexico, a grad-student or something like that, who’d worked with Thor’s girlfriend, Jane Foster. 

What the hell was she doing here? Dr. Foster and Selvig hadn’t managed to attend. Of course, Selvig might not have wanted to, one of Loki’s puppets, he was probably dealing with as much guilt and nightmares as Clint and he hadn’t even been particularly well-known to Coulson. 

The girl sat at the side of the grave -- it really was a nice day, and somehow that seemed horribly inappropriate -- and pulled out a newspaper. She flipped a few pages and started reading out loud. 

“What is she doing?” Clint said, aloud. 

“She’s catching him up on the outcome of the battle,” Nat said. She handed him the binoculars and Clint could lip read as she read. She moved from the end of the article about the Battle of New York and then read him the sports scores, with a quick apology that she didn’t know what his teams were. 

That was… stupidly sweet. And weird. Clint pressed his fist over his chest, trying to keep his heart centered and beating. 

Clint dropped out of his roost, Natasha at his heels. “Hey,” he said to the woman, who looked up without startling. She smiled, a big, friendly grin. “He likes the Knicks.” 

The woman nodded. “I’ll remember that.” 

“Nat and I are going to the bar, pour one out for Phil,” Clint said. “Want to come?” 

The woman considered it, nodded, and extended a hand for Clint to help her up. “I’m Darcy Lewis,” she said. “Agent Dad saved my life once, so…” 

“Agent Dad?” Clint felt a tickle of a smile on his mouth. “He would have liked that, I think.” 

“Yeah,” Darcy said. “He was good people.” 

“The best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next were originally part of a Clint-centric adventure (will still be posted as What Happens in Asgard in a few weeks) but didn't fit the general theme of that particular fic.
> 
> Still, I put some work into it, and I thought y'all might like the background information. Enjoy!


	15. The Time You Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m glad he’s not here to see this,” Clint said, and that hurt because he wasn’t glad, but at the same time. “S.H.I.E.L.D. was his life, his wife, his baby, his parents. I’m glad he’s not here to watch Captain America burn it the fuck down.” 
> 
> “I probably shouldn’t have to remind you that the red octopus dudes were the ones who did that, right? And that Steve probably saved all of our lives by bringing those helicarriers down. If Agent Dad had been here? He’d have been giving the Captain a standing ovation. _The price of freedom is high. Always has been_.”

_May 2014_  

Time passed. It always did. Seemed there was no trauma great enough that someone didn’t live through it. The survivors would gather, mourn the dead, lick their wounds. Every time there were fewer of the old guard and more young ones eager to step up. The Earth was a factory and war was the end product. There were always new cogs and wheels to keep the machine turning. 

This would be the second year he’d sat here, on this day, drinking from a flask and talking to a dead man. Tradition in the making. Clint wasn’t big on tradition, but maybe it was time to start. 

The first year, he’d had to wait, wait for _hours_ , for people to clear the fuck off and leave him alone with his friend. Clint got it, he did, it wasn’t like he’d had exclusive access to Phil Coulson and it wasn’t like there weren’t other people who cared about the man, but god damn, there were too many of them. 

Except for the few that weren’t there, the faces who hadn’t shown up. Melinda Mays. Where the fuck was she? That girl, Darcy, she was there again, that time with a whole stack of newspaper clippings, mostly about Captain America and even though people came and people went, she’d sat there most of the day, just reading them to him. 

She had been the last to go and Clint had almost stopped her to talk, then decided he wasn’t up to it. 

The second year, only a few. 

And Darcy. With her stack of clippings. Clint didn’t bother to hide from her, this time. They’d run into each other since then, a few times, at various Avengers Functions. Tony had a weird tendency to gather them together and pretend to be family. Sometimes they were family. Birthdays and anniversaries and Christmas and New Years. It was Tony, all over. 

“Hey, short-stack,” Clint said, offering his flask. He was sort of surprised she took it, for some reason, Darcy seemed to him to be enough of a hippy chick that he thought she probably toked up or some random bullshit herbal tea stuff before coming out to the cemetery, but she knocked back some of Tony’s best scotch without even a gasp. 

“Thank you,” Darcy said. “Little quieter this year.” 

“I’m glad he’s not here to see this,” Clint said, and that hurt because he wasn’t _glad_ , but at the same time. “S.H.I.E.L.D. was his life, his wife, his baby, his parents. I’m glad he’s not here to watch Captain America burn it the fuck down.” 

“I probably shouldn’t have to remind you that the red octopus dudes were the ones who did that, right? And that Steve probably saved all of our lives by bringing those helicarriers down. If Agent Dad had been here? He’d have been giving the Captain a standing ovation. _The price of freedom is high. Always has been._ ” 

And somehow, that was the thing that broke him. Two years had passed and how many uncountable days between and that was the thing that sent him to his knees, weeping at Phil Coulson’s grave, smelling the thick perfume of the flowers that people had been leaving for days -- not everyone could get away on the anniversary -- and it was good to know Phil hadn’t been forgotten. 

“Hey,” she said, after he’d cried himself out and he had to say he’d fucking appreciated that. Everyone always tried to talk to him, on the very rare occasions that he’d allowed himself to be upset. Darcy just waited, nearby. She’d read out loud from her stack of clippings and Clint came to understand from listening to the dates and titles, that she’d been saving everything. For two years, she’d been saving newspaper clippings. 

“You do that for some other reason?” he asked her, bruskly gesturing to stack of clippings, each one glued onto a sheet of construction paper, or suspended inside one of those clear plastic page protectors. 

“Sanity,” she said. She closed the notebook. “My life was boring and normal and then my boss ran over a God with her Jeep. As far as meet-cutes go, that one was off the charts.” 

“And you tasered him,” Clint said, smiling. “I heard all about that.” 

“Yeah, well, he was freaking me out,” Darcy countered. 

“So, you have a scrapbook,” Clint prompted. 

“After… the thing, in New Mexico,” Darcy said, her fingers stroking down the spine of her notebook like it was a kitten, “I had terrible dreams. Agent Dad was nice and all, but he was also a little scary, and sort of stressed how important it was that we didn’t talk about what had happened and Jane lost all of her research for a while. Did you know that? S.H.I.E.L.D. packed up all of our stuff and just took it, like they had the _right_ and nobody listened to anything we said. Which maybe makes a little more sense now, because we don’t know who was S.H.I.E.L.D. and who was Hydra. But, I kept waking up from theses dreams where I didn’t _exist_ ; nobody _saw_ me, nobody listened to me. And I needed some sort of proof that I did, and that what I thought happened had happened.” 

“Jesus,” Clint said, watching her. What a hell of a thing. 

“So, I started keeping track. I cut out everything I could find about Iron Man, started there. And then, well, everything else. When I wake up, I can flip through my book and see it, in black and white, that I’m not crazy, that the planet really was attacked by aliens, that heroes and Gods and all that. That’s real.” 

“So you bring that to Coulson?” 

She shrugged and gave off one of her breathy little laughs. “He seemed like the sort of man who liked to know what was going on. I thought, I don’t know, maybe he’d like an update. To know that he… mattered. And that at least some people aren’t going to forget him. That he was here. Real.” 

Clint pressed his fingers hard against his eyelids, until there were great, glowing red spots in his vision. “You’re so sweet, I’mma get a stomach-ache,” he said, because he was not going to fucking cry again, that just wasn’t going to happen. “Look, I’mma go get a drink and pour one out for Coulson. Want to join me?” 

Darcy nodded. 

They found a seedy bar and one drink turned into several. After a few beers had loosened his tongue -- and it’s not like it fucking mattered anymore, with Nat having dumped everything on the Internet anyway -- he told some of the better Coulson stories that he’d been sitting on for _years_ for want of a proper audience. She had a few herself, including one she’d gotten from a convenience store clerk just outside of New Mexico. The official report, she told him, did not mention Coulson, but since Thor was with them, when they’d stopped at the Roxxon for gas, the cashier had been eager to tell the true story. 

That would have been just like Coulson, Clint thought, all deadpan humor and self-deprecating wit. 

Stories and drinks turned into karaoke singing and a few drunken turns around the dance-floor (tiny little thing it was, too, more like a dance-mat) but even drunk, Clint could hold his own and Darcy had a surprising tolerance for alcohol. When they finally settled the tab -- and for a change, Clint was actually grateful for his ridiculously high stipend for being an Avenger, because damn, had they really consumed that much alcohol? -- _he_ was leaning on her as they staggered down the road. 

Clint couldn’t say he was exactly surprised that they ended up in his bed together; it seemed like the thing to do. He also couldn’t say that he was surprised that he couldn’t do anything with her once he got her there; whiskey dick was so annoying that way. She didn’t seem to mind; just rolled over onto her back and did herself while he watched, which was pretty hot, Clint had to admit, watching her work her fingers between her pretty legs and bite her lip when she came. 

He was observant, too. They slept through their morning-after hangover and when he woke her up in the middle of the afternoon, he was pretty thoroughly able to replicate the things she’d done to herself, which led to a pretty damn delightful afternoon. 

Clint got her out of the Tower and onto her plane. She’d hugged him in the airport, told him she’d see him next May (if not sooner, because Thor often dragged her and Jane to the Tower for events) and then tilted her head at him. “You have really pretty eyes,” she said. “I only just noticed.” 

Huh. 

That was pretty much it. They ran into each other at Avenger’s events and sometimes they went to bed together and sometimes they didn’t. He’d send her text messages from time to time, usually pictures of kittens. She’d called him once, after Thor and Jane’s sexual athletics had made it rain so badly that the apartment they were leasing had flooded and she was in a hotel. 

He liked her a lot. Loved her a little. And they fucked, sometimes. Life as usual for Clint Barton.


End file.
